


Becoming Harriet

by Teao



Series: A place in the world [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gender Issues, Identity Issues, Nice Severus Snape, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 94
Words: 324,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teao/pseuds/Teao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets a surprise on his seventeenth birthday when he discovers a secret Lily Potter took to her grave; a secret that will change his life forever.<br/>He must learn to interact with the wizarding world all over again, and discovers the darker sides of inequality and misogyny.</p>
<p>Not HBP compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changes

Harry lay quietly in his bed, watching the seconds tick down to midnight. It seems a lifetime ago that he had done just this in the hut on the rock, counting down to his eleventh birthday by the light of Dudley’s watch. Now, six years later, in just thirty seconds, he’d be an adult. A real adult in the wizarding world. He’d be able to do magic away from Hogwarts, get his apparition licence, and best of all, he’d be able to leave number 4, Privet Drive, never to return again. His trunk was packed, and the fare for the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley was all counted out ready.

The last few seconds counted down on the battered old clock. “Happy birthday, Harry,” he whispered to himself, and sat up, reaching for the wand on the bedside table. His hand never closed around the shaft. He was thrown back onto the bed, his head cracking against the wall with a reverberating thump. “Ow,” Harry grunted as the world swam before him and shooting pains wracked through him. He shut his eyes against the spinning world.

The early morning sun slanted across the bed, and Harry groaned, throwing an arm across his eyes. His muddled brain couldn’t quite seem to surface. When had it become morning?”

He sat up slowly, groaning as he flopped his head forwards to rest in his hands. Something was wrong, he decided. Nothing felt quite right. He forced his eyes to focus, and noticed the crisp parchment envelope on the floor, squarely between his feet. It certainly hadn’t been there last night…

_My dearest Harriet_ , it read. Harriet? Who was Harriet? Harry wondered, scrunching his nose.

_I’m so sorry that I’m not here to explain all this to you. If things had been better… but if you’ve received this letter, then I’ve died before your seventeenth birthday. I wish I was with you to explain myself, but it would seem that I can’t be. I’m sorry for the deception._

_You see, dearest, your father is wonderful in many ways, but in some, he is still set in the old wizarding traditions. He was so very certain that our first child would be male. I don’t know if you know this, Harriet, but the wizarding world is still deeply misogynistic. The first born for the old families is always a boy. Firstborn girl children apparently don’t happen, but don’t believe that for a minute. They’re killed at birth, and I couldn’t let that happen to you. So I hid the fact that I was having a girl from the world, from your father, and when you were born, I cast the necessary spells to disguise you as male. Now you’re seventeen, an adult, and you’re able to protect yourself and claim your place in the world. Please forgive me, dearest._

_I know you will have questions, my love, and I can’t hope to anticipate them all. One other person knows about this: my oldest friend, Severus Snape. He was there when you came into the world, and he helped me do all this. Please, seek him out. He is a good man, though dour, and he will see everything right._

_I love you always and forever,_

_Mum_

 

Harry stared down at the letter in confusion, and pushed a lock of hair out of his face. Out of his… his hand stilled. His hair wasn’t long enough to fall over his face like that. Slowly, fearfully he stood and ran his hands down his body. Oh Merlin. he had breasts, and hips that stuck out like a girl’s. He stumbled over to the cracked mirror on the chest of drawers- it had been in Dudley’s room until a fit of rage had seen it broken.

Even around the spidery fault lines, Harry could see the changes in his face. he was shorter still, he realised, the centre of the break in the glass over his forehead instead of his nose. His chin was more delicate, his cheekbones more pronounced, his eyelashes longer, fuller. All that paled in comparison to his hair, which tumbled down his back in a dark tumultuous waterfall. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, his voice higher. His hands came up to cup his new breasts again, tugging a little to make sure they were real. That hurt. Then, gingerly, a hand went down to feel between his legs. He pulled it away quickly. The familiar lumps and bumps down there were gone. Harry swore and sank down onto his bed again. He glanced at the clock and realised that it was only half past five. The Dursleys wouldn’t be up for a couple of hours yet. He needed to get away. They couldn’t see him like this. He shuddered to think what they would think to suddenly find a teenage girl in their house when a teenage boy had gone to sleep the night before. He stood and dragged his jeans out from his trunk. Quickly, he decided; get dressed quickly, don’t look. He managed to get as far as stripping out of his pyjama bottoms and into his jeans, belting them tightly around his newly smaller waist.

He was just about to unearth a t-shirt which might be clean when a sharp rapping came from the window. He let the owl in with surprise; he wasn’t expecting anything. His friends knew that he’d be at the burrow later, so they wouldn’t send gifts to him here.

The owl was unusually dark grey. It offered Harry the letter held in it’s beak and immediately hopped back to the windowsill. He thought it might have been glaring at him, but he couldn’t be sure. Owls usually did look grumpy.

The parchment in his hand was addressed simply to ‘Potter’, and Harry couldn’t help but recognise the flowing handwriting. Snape. He sighed. He’d never expected to receive private correspondence from Snape, but perhaps he’d get some answers.

_Potter,_

_If all has gone to plan, you will now be as you were born. I will fulfill my promise and duty to your mother; any questions you have about your situation I will answer to the best of my ability, and any needs you I have I will strive to fulfill._

_I am available to meet at your convenience, be that now, later or never. I await your response by return owl._

_Severus Snape_

Harry couldn’t believe that he was going to have to be reliant on Snape for anything, but it seemed like it was his best option at the moment. He grabbed a muggle pen from the bedside table and scrawled _As soon as possible, please. Where? Harry_ beneath Snape’s missive. He thrust it back at the owl, who took the note and soared out of the window without further instruction. He really hoped that Snape would respond soon.

He turned his back to the mirror, tugging his pyjama top over his head and replacing it with a mostly-clean t shirt. A glance down told him that it was stretching oddly across his newly engorged chest, but there was nothing to be done about that. When the shops opened in Muggle London, he could see about finding some clothes that fit.

It was short work to toss the remainder of his possessions into his trunk: he didn’t have much, and he’d never been a fastidious packer. The majority of his belongings lived in his trunk all summer anyway. Even so, he was surprised at how quickly the owl returned.

_I am at the end of Privet Drive. We can apparate to a better location._

_-Severus Snape_

Harry was certainly not delighted about the prospect of going off to meet Snape, but he couldn’t just stay here. He cast charms to shrink and lighten his trunk before tucking the whole into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt along with his wand. A last glance around the bedroom he’d spent his summer holidays in since he’d first gone to Hogwarts- there were no happy memories here.

He was sure he’ make it out of the house unseen. It was still just after six. As softly as he could, he closed the bedroom door. He’d forgotten the squeak at the top of the stairs though.

“Where are you going, boy?” Uncle Vernon growled when Harry was only half way down the stairs.

Harry wanted to laugh. Even without whatever had happened overnight, he wasn’t a boy anymore; he was an adult now. And with his new body, he certainly couldn’t be described as one. He turned to face Vernon. “I’m leaving,” he said resolutely, aware that his voice was higher, and that even in the dim light of the hallway, Vernon couldn’t help but notice something odd. He was right; he watched his uncle’s face contort and redden. Harry smiled. “Goodbye. I’d say thank you, but you’ve done nothing good for me.”

He left Vernon spluttering and swearing on the landing, and unlocked the front door, shutting it quietly behind him. At least all the neighbours still had their curtains drawn, so  the Dursley’s wouldn’t have awkward explanations. Harry had a moment’s thought that he should have waited until later and then had a shouting match on the lawn. It would have been satisfying to leave the Dursley’s angry and ashamed, but probably would not have done much good to him in the long run. Better to be the bigger person, he decided.

Snape was nowhere in evidence, but Harry headed for the end of the road anyway, his hand tightly wrapped around the hilt of his wand in case it was some kind of trap. Voldemort may not be likely to be lurking on Privet Drive, but Harry wasn't about to take any unnecessary risks.

From the dappled shadow of an oak tree, Harry noticed the shimmer of a disillusionment charm being lifted, and Snape stepped forwards. “Harriet,” he said softly. Harry had never heard him speak without the cold barb in his voice before.

“I suppose so,” Harry replied.

Snape looked him up and down appraisingly, taking in the jeans rolled up at the ankles, the shoes that were too big and would cause blisters if worn for any distance, the t shirt that didn’t hide the fact that he had no bra. “Of course,” he said. “You don’t have any women’s clothes. I think that we should go for breakfast, then see about getting you something that fits.”

Harry nodded, and Snape held out a black-clad arm for him to take. For a change, Snape wasn’t clad in his typical voluminous robes, but it seemed that his muggle fashion sense wasn’t as far from the mark as most wizards. He wore a pair of close fitting black jeans, a grey t-shirt and short black jacket. Harry recognised his boots as high-quality dragonhide, but muggles would assume leather. He reached out to put his hand in the crook of Snape’s elbow, and immediately felt the swirl of apparition, squeezing him tightly from all sides.

His ears were ringing from the magical travel when he landed with a thump. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Manchester,” Snape replied shortly. “This way.” Harry had to scamper to keep up with his professor’s long legs.

Luckily, it wasn’t far. A small bell on the back of the door tinkled as Snape pushed into a small cafe. A surly looking man in builder’s overalls sat in one corner with a bacon roll and a large mug of tea. The plump brunette girl behind the counter looked up and smiled at him. “Severus!” she greeted warmly. “Are you looking for Robin? He’s not in until ten…”

Snape waved her words away with a gesture of his hand. “I just need somewhere quiet for breakfast, Rosie,” he assured her. “I’ll visit Robin sometime soon. May we use the back room?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Make yourselves comfortable; I’ll bring in some breakfast for you.”

Snape thanked her and swept past the counter and into the back of the shop. Harry scrambled after him with an apologetic smile as he brushed past Rosie the waitress. To his surprise, the room he followed Snape into wasn’t a kitchen or storeroom, but a tiny little staffroom, just big enough for a table and four chairs. Snape sat and waved Harry into another chair. “You know her?” Harry asked.

“Rosie? Yes. My son works here.”

Harry almost fell off his chair in surprise. “Your son?” he asked incredulously. “You have a son?”

“Yes, Robin.” Snape didn’t even flinch at Harry’s tone. “He’s at university, but he works here to cover the bills.”

“How come no one ever mentioned him?” Harry wanted to know. “Didn’t he go to Hogwarts?”

Snape shook his head. “Robin’s a squib,” he explained, without a touch of malice. Harry had to shut his mouth, hanging open with shock, when Rosie nudged the door open with her hip, her hands full with a large teapot and mugs. Snape thanked her, and only when she had shut the door behind her did he continue speaking to Harry. “His mother was a muggle,” he explained, “and as I am a half-blood, it’s not surprising that he didn’t inherit the ability to practise magic.” He poured milk into both mugs, then tea, and pushed one towards Harry. “As fascinating as you may find my family situation, I feel that you must have more pressing concerns at the moment,” he told the girl in front of him.

Harry made a little shaking motion with his head, not to disagree, but to clear the thought of Snape having a son, much less a son with a muggle woman, from his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t really understand. Am I a boy or a girl?”

Severus sat back, cradling his mug of tea, his long fingers curled around the warmth of the heavy earthenware. “You were born female,” he told Harry. “Think of all the old Wizarding families you know, and think of how many have first born females. The Malfoys, the Blacks, the Longbottoms, even the Weasleys. All have a first born male in the major line. The magical world can hide it well, but it is inherently misogynistic. Girls cannot inherit in the same ways as their male siblings, so first born females are often killed in the womb as soon as the sex of the child is known. Your mother wouldn’t do it. She lied to everyone about you. I was the only one present when she gave birth, and I helped her with the spells necessary to hide you as a male. Even James was sure that you were a son.”

“So I’d be dead if she hadn’t pretended I was a boy?”

Snape inclined his head. “You would have never been born,” he agreed. From an inside pocket of his jacket he pulled some papers. Silently, he passed them across the table.

A birth certificate for Harriet Jane Potter, born 31st of July at seven minutes past midnight. “I changed the Hogwarts records to read Harry instead of Harriet,” Snape said quietly. Harry sat staring at the official documents until Rosie disturbed them again, this time with a tray groaning with two huge full English breakfasts and a toast rack.

“I’ll be in the front if you need anything else,” she said cheerfully.

Snape pushed a plate towards Harry. “Eat first,” he instructed, “questions after.”

Harry had never been a big eater. Ron as always stealing the food he hadn’t finished from his plate at school. He’d never had much food at all living with the Dursley’s. They hadn’t normally starved him, but he never quite got enough. Nevertheless, he made a valiant effort at the massive plate of food. Only the fried mushrooms didn’t even get touched- he hated them. Snape, he noticed, didn’t appear to like tomatoes, but his mushrooms were eaten with gusto.

How was he ever going to tell his friends all this? Harry wondered. How did you just turn up and say: hi, I’m a girl now?

Eventually, both had pushed their plates away from them. “What would you like to do?” Snape asked.

“What do you mean?” Harry wanted to know.

Snape steepled his fingers under his chin. “Well, you can reveal yourself as female to the world. Now that you are of age, no one can contest your right as the heir of the Potters; you came into your inheritance at midnight. On the other hand, you can choose to present to the world as male. The spells that were used to give you a male body can only be used on a newborn child, but you can use glamours to give the appearance of masculinity.”

“I… I don’t know,” Harry admitted quietly.

“Well,” Snape pressed, what do you feel like? A man or a woman?”

Harry looked at him helplessly. “I just feel like _me_ ,” he explained. “Just the same as always. How am I meant to know what it feels like to be something I’m not?”

“I don’t mean to pressure you,” Snape pressed on, “but this is a decision that you should make quite quickly. You must tell your friends something, and I know that you are expected at the Burrow later on today.”

Harry nodded. He tried to imagine life as a woman, tried to imagine hiding something this big from the world.

“If I used glamours to look like a man, would I be able to, erm, well, have sex?” he asked hesitantly. He couldn’t believe he was discussing sex with the scariest teacher! It would have been more uncomfortable with McGonagall, though, he thought.

“No. It’s a glamour only, it doesn’t change your anatomy. I don’t know of any spells that can do that on an adult. Muggles have surgeries that can give an approximation, though.”

Harry nodded. He’d expected as much. He sank back into thought for a few moments. eventually, he said, “The last couple of years I figured out that I was gay. I tried to fancy girls. It was what you were meant to do, you know? But I had my first crush on a guy in first year.”

Snape didn’t laugh, or even look surprised. “Homosexuality happens in the wizarding world, but it’s viewed with suspicion,” he informed Harry. Harry already knew that. He’d heard the whispers, the taunts about boys suspected of being gay. He’d kept it to himself.

“I think I should be a girl,” Harry informed the professor.

“I think that’s wise,” Snape replied. “It’s good to finally meet you, Harriet Potter. I hope that we can make a fresh start, and that you can bring yourself to forget the way I have treated you in the past.”

Harriet smiled, thinking of how Snape had gone out of his way to help today, how he’d gone to such lengths to keep the secret made by Lily Potter. “I’d like that.”

 

 

 


	2. At the Burrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few people stating that my assertion that pureblood families usually have a male child first for inheritance purposes is false, citing families like the Blacks, Parkinsons and Greengrasses as evidence. So I thought I would clear up my thoughts on the matter. If you have no interest in discussions on family lineage, feel free to skip the lengthy author's note!  
> I can understand the feeling on the black family: Bellatrix, after all, is definitely the eldest. However, she, Andromeda and Narcissa are of a lesser line- it is Orion and Walburga's children (ultimately Sirius, the first born male) who inherits. But what about Walburga? Why wasn't she killed so Cygnus would inherit? Well, there was nothing to inherit. Taking the line back and tracing through the first born child, the Black fortune would have come through Walburga's husband and second cousin, Orion, since his elder sister had no children. Quite why she didn't lose her life at birth, I'm not sure... every family has it's mystery.   
> As to Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Hannah Abbott, and so on... I can find no canon evidence that they don't have older brothers. As far as I know, it is never said that they are only children, or the eldest.   
> The exception, as to every rule, is Luna. However, I really can't see Xenophilius caring overmuch about his family name...
> 
> Here's hoping that this clears the matter up! Enjoy the rest of the story!

“We need to get you some clothes,” Snape declared. “Clothes that fit. Have you muggle money on you?”

“Erm, about twenty quid?” Harriet admitted.

“I will pay, you can reimburse me at a later date.”

“Sir?” Harriet asked in surprise.

Snape smiled. “Until you are back at school, Severus will do fine,” he said. “And I know that you have plenty of gold in your vault, because you’ve just come into your inheritance, so you can’t have spent it yet. Therefore, lending you money is unlikely to see me out of pocket.”

Harriet wasn’t sure what he meant. “I’ve had access to my vault since I came to Hogwarts,” she pointed out.

“You didn’t know?” Severus asked. “I thought your mother would have said something- I know she left a letter for you. You’ve had access to your personal vault, yes, the money James and Lily put aside for you. Now you have access to the full Potter fortune.”

“There’s a Potter fortune?”

“Of course,” Severus said. “The Potter family is very old. I don’t know exactly what you’ll find, but the goblins at Gringotts should have another couple of vaults for you- they’ll have the keys for you. There should be a couple of properties too, as well as the house at Godric’s Hollow, of course.”

Harriet was gobsmacked, but she quickly saw a problem. “But… won’t all that have been left to Harry Potter?” she asked. “Not Harriet Potter?”

“The goblins work from magical signatures, not legal identity,” Severus assured him. “It’s why identity fraud isn’t a problem in the wizarding world. A magical signature is the same through your life. Yours was registered with Gringotts when you were a week old, to set up your vault and add you as heir to your parents’. When you’re next in Diagon Alley, visit Gringotts and ask for a statement of your assets. You might be pleasantly surprised.”

Harriet realised that there was a lot about the wizarding world and her own history that she didn’t really know. She’d had no idea about female children being killed, no idea that she had more money than was in the vault she had seen. Severus pulled her out of her reverie. “Come on, we need to get you some clothes before you go to surprise the Weasleys.”

Harry nodded and stood, but before Severus could open the door there was a sharp rap and the door was pushed open. “Dad? Rosie said you were here.”

Robin Snape was as tall as his father, his hair dark brown rather than the midnight black Severus wore. When he turned his gaze to Harriet, she saw that his eyes were the same obsidian, under the same straight black brows. Harriet gulped, her belly constricting on her breakfast.

“Robin, this is Harriet. She’s the daughter of a very old friend of mine,” Severus said quietly.

“Pleased to meet you, Harriet,” Robin said, shutting the door behind him. “You’re a witch?”

“Erm, yeah,” Harriet said. She still wasn’t sure about her new name; it was strange to be introduced by it. It was even stranger to be referred to as a witch instead of a wizard. She hadn’t thought of that.

“Finished school?” Robin asked with a grin.

Severus cut in. “Robin, stop flirting. It’s Harriet’s seventeenth birthday today; she has a year of schooling left. We were just on our way out to buy her some clothes; she’s just left home in some rather unfortunate circumstances, hence the odd clothing.”

Robin shrugged. “Magical folk have the worst fashion sense anyway,” he said. “Nothing unusual there. Hope to see you again, Harriet.”

“Me too,” Harriet replied shyly. “See you again, that is.”

Severus sighed in impatience. “Come on,” he said to Harriet. He squeezed Robin’s shoulder in farewell as he passed.

“Thanks for the use of your staffroom, Rosie,” he said as he passed the counter, leaving a twenty pound note. He herded Harriet out of the door.

Severus, it turned out, had a decent sense of where to buy muggle clothes for females. He seemed to know Manchester well, taking Harriet to the town centre and shepherding her around shops, picking out jeans and t shirts and jumpers. Within two hours, she had enough clothes to see her through a week, plus two new pairs of shoes. She even had a skirt, at Severus’s insistence. “You’ll have to wear one for school uniform,” he pointed out. "You may as well get used to it."

She began to regret the decision to live as female when Severus sent her to be fitted for a bra. The feeling of the saleswoman flitting a tape measure around her newly budded chest was unnerving. She couldn’t believe how much more sensitive she was there than when she’d been Harry. She was so relieved to escape with a selection of the contraptions that she almost didn’t mind that Severus had take it upon himself to pick out knickers for her. At least they weren’t lacy, she mused.

In truth, she felt a lot better when she emerged from the bathroom at the end of the shopping spree, dressed in jeans that actually fit, a plain blue t-shirt that was cut to allow for her shape, and a black cardigan. Even the ballet style shoes were comfortable, as much as new shoes ever were, but she felt almost like she was barefoot, they were so light.

“Much better,” Severus said approvingly, and held out a paper cup of hot chocolate. “I didn’t know if you liked coffee,” he explained, “but everyone likes hot chocolate.”

“Thanks,” Harriet said, perching on the bench next to him and sipping the drink.

“When are you expected at the Burrow?” Severus asked.

Harriet chewed on her lip. “Anytime now,” she admitted.

“Would you like me to come along and explain?” Severus asked gently.

Harriet looked up hopefully. “Would you? I mean, I know you don’t like the Weasleys, but I’m really nervous, and I don’t know how they’ll take it…”

“Shush,” Severus said. “I wouldn’t have offered if I did not intend to follow through.

“Why are you being so nice?” Harriet wondered. “You never liked me before.”

“You’re right, and I can only apologise,” Severus admitted. “When you were Harry, I detested the fact that you’d made Lily so unhappy- she was so excited to have a daughter, and so upset that she had to hide what you were. And I hated the fact that the action we took in hiding your true sex lead to her death.”

Harriet looked up sharply. “What?” she spluttered. “She’s dead because Vol...because _he_ killed her. Not because I was a boy.”

“The prophecy specified a male child,” Severus reminded her. “Sybill explicitly stated that the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal. Had you been known as female, you would never have come to his attention, he would never have attempted to kill you.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Harriet admitted.

“Don’t blame yourself, Harriet,” Severus admonished. “The choice to hide what you are was down to your mother, and to myself. You are not to blame.” He laid a cautious hand on Harriet’s shoulder, ready to move away if she flinched. She didn’t. “Come. The sooner we face this, the better.”

Severus seemed to know all the deserted alleys from which to apparate, and Harriet quickly found herself standing just outside the Weasley’s front gate. She felt sick. How was she going to explain to Ginny, who’d been hoping for a real relationship, that she’d never really found her sexually appealing, that she was just going through the motions? Severus seemed to sense her fear. “Don’t panic,” he muttered as he opened the gate to the higgledy-piggledy house.

He rapped sharply on the back door. “Coming, coming,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice floated through the door, muffled. She had a smudge of flour on her nose when she appeared, clearly in the middle of baking something. Harriet was willing to bet it was probably a birthday cake, knowing Mrs. Weasley. She shrunk back, trying to hide behind Severus, wishing she didn’t have to do this.

“Severus,” Mrs Weasley said, her voice flatter, colder. “Nice of you to visit. What can I do for you?” She apparently hadn’t noticed Harriet yet.

“Good morning, Molly. May we come in?” Severus asked smoothly.

Mrs. Weasley looked puzzled for a moment, then spotted Harriet. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” She stepped back letting them into the kitchen.

“I believe you’re expecting Harry today?” Severus commented, as if just making conversation. He seated himself at the chair nearest the fireplace.

Mrs Weasley smiled fondly. “Yes, we are. He’s seventeen today, you know.” Harriet could feel her eyes on her, searching.

“I was aware,” Severus intoned. “Molly, this young lady is Harriet. Harriet Potter.”

Molly frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Severus continued on smoothly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Seventeen years ago today, I helped Lily Potter deliver a beautiful child. At Lily’s insistence, I helped her to disguise her daughter as a boy. However, now that Harriet has come of age, the spells that bound her are no longer in place.”

“Severus, that’s not possible,” Mrs. Weasley cried out. She crossed the kitchen to where Harriet stood, looking at the floor. Strong, floury fingers grasped Harriet’s chin and made her look up. Mrs. Weasley searched her face, brushing a thumb across the scar on her forehead. “You do look like Harry,” she admitted. “Same eyes, same scar.” She looked away, glancing at the clock on the wall. She gasped.

There was a new, tenth hand on the Weasley clock, and it pointed to ‘Home’. Mrs Weasley looked back and forth between Harriet and the clock for a moment, then she folded Harriet to her breast in an embrace. “I have another daughter,” she whispered fiercely.

She released Harriet and wiped a hand over her eyes quickly. “Well,” she said, “you can’t stay in Ron’s room anymore. You’ll have to bunk in with Ginny and Hermione. Unless… well, dear, I have to ask…” she trailed off, not knowing how to phrase it.

“I like boys, Mrs. Weasley. I always have,” Harriet assured her.

“Well then, that’s settled,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Now, I can’t very well make your cake with you here to watch, can I?” She smiled at Harriet warmly. “Ron, Hermione,” she called.

“Now then,” she said, turning back to the counter, “you want to be called Harriet, not Harry?”

“Erm, yeah, but I’m still getting used to it,” Harriet admitted.

“That’s understandable, dear,” she assured her. Ron skidded into the kitchen, Hermione following at a more sedate pace.

Ron stared at Harriet. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

Mrs. Weasley answered before Harriet could. “There’s been a bit of a change,” she told him. “It would appear that Harry was a girl all along. This is Harriet.”

Ron shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he declared.

Hermione cuffed him around the ears. “Stop being so stupid, Ron,” she said primly. “Why didn’t you tell us, Harry?”

“I didn’t know,” Harriet explained.

Severus stood. “I’ll take my leave now,” he said. “Your owl will find me if you need anything, Harriet. I will inform the headmaster of the change in your circumstances.” He inclined his head to Mrs. Weasley. “My thanks for your hospitality, Molly.”

“Anytime, Severus,” she replied, still in something of a daze. “Now, why don’t the three of you go up and get Harriet settled in Ginny and Hermione’s room,” she instructed.

Ron hung back as the climbed the stairs, and just before Hermione followed Harriet into Ginny’s room, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back, slamming the door.

Harriet sat on the third bed that the house had provided, alone in the room. She should have guessed that Ron would take it badly.

She could hear his whispered words if she strained. “...could be a trick,” he hissed to Hermione. “There’s no way that’s Harry. Why was Snape here? I bet Snape’s taken Harry to you-know-who…”

“Don’t be an idiot, Ron,” Hermione snapped. She pushed open the door again. “So, Harry,” she asked brightly, “what happened?”

“Harriet,” Harriet said quietly. “My name’s Harriet, apparently.”

“Rubbish!” Ron exploded. “You’re not Harry, no fucking way. Harry’s got dangly bits!”

Harriet looked up helplessly. “Look mate, I’m confused too. But I am the same person, you’ve got to believe me. Ask me anything, something only I’d know the answer to.”

Ron continued to splutter wordlessly. Hermione perched on the side of her bed. “Okay then,” she said. “Which of us knocked out the troll in the bathroom, in first year?”

“Ron,” Harriet answered. “He used _wingardium leviosa_ to levitate the club.”

“See, Ron,” Hermione pointed out. “It is Harry… erm, Harriet.”

“They could have stolen his memories,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione huffed in frustration. “Oh, now you’re just being ridiculous, Ron,” she said. “Harry… Harriet, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Harriet took a deep breath. “Okay… it’s going to sound really weird, though.” Ron settled, leaning against the wall, still looking angry. Hermione nodded encouragingly, so she continued. “I was awake at midnight, last night. I was going to leave just after midnight, get the Knight Bus and stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the night, instead of sleeping at Privet Drive one more night. But before I could go anywhere, just after midnight, there was this.. pain.”

“In your scar?” Hermione asked.

Harriet shook her head. “No, everywhere,” she said. “It… it was like the cruciatus curse.”

“See!” Ron exclaimed. “Harry was tortured by death eaters and had his memories taken away to give to her!”

“Shut up, Ron!” Hermione snapped. “Carry on, Harriet.”

“Erm, okay… Well, I suppose I must have fainted because of the pain, or something, because when I woke up, it was about half past five. There was a letter from my Mum sitting next to me,” she explained. “It said she’d hidden me as a boy, because I’d have been killed if anyone knew I was a girl… here.” She fished the letter from her pocket, folded up with her real birth certificate.

Hermione read it, Ron looking over her shoulder. “So you contacted Snape for answers?” she asked.

Harriet shook her head. “No. Snape contacted me. He sent an owl asking if I wanted to meet up. He took me to breakfast, then we went shopping for girl clothes.”

“ _Snape_ took you shopping?” Ron asked incredulously, looking up from his study of Harriet’s birth certificate.

“Yeah,” Harriet said. “He’s been really decent. He said that all this time, he hated me because he knew I was really Harriet, and I guess it upset my mum to have to hide everything like that.” She decided to leave off the bit about the prophecy. She wanted some time to think about that one, and discuss it with Dumbledore first.

“Mate, that’s bizarre,” Ron told her. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but this looks real to me.” He tapped the birth certificate. “Look, I’m sorry for getting mad, but I’m really confused.”

“You think you’re confused,” Harriet muttered.

Mrs. Weasley had obviously explained the change from Harry to Harriet to the rest of the Weasleys when they arrived mid-afternoon for the birthday party.

Hermione had braided her hair back for her- it was too long for Harriet to manage, unpractised as she was. She resolved to get it cut as soon as she could, and get a fringe cut in to hide her scar. It made it harder to hide behind it as she slipped into the warm Weasley kitchen.

“Ooh-er, Harry, you make a sexy witch,” George chortled.

“Harriet, you dolt,” Fred corrected, elbowing his twin in the ribs. “He’s not wrong though- you look amazing. All that quidditch. Good for the physique.”

Harriet blushed. Ginny gave a choked sob and fled the room.

“Don’t mind her,” Bill assured Harriet, pulling out a chair at the head of the table. “She just isn’t used to the idea yet. Come on, birthday girl, you get the seat of honour.”

Mrs. Weasley had laid on a spectacular afternoon tea for Harriet’s birthday. She’d missed lunch, so she happily put away sandwiches and little sausage rolls and pork pies. Now that Ron had come around, and without Ginny in the room, all of the Weasleys treated her, if not exactly as normal, with warmth. She smiled as she blew out her birthday candles.

This wasn’t so bad, she decided. 

 

 


	3. Coming to terms

A Hogwarts owl swooped in in the middle of breakfast the next morning. Only Harriet’s quick reflexes kept the missive it carried from being dumped in the marmalade.

 _Dear Miss Potter_ , it read.

_Professor Snape has brought the change in your sex and the reasoning behind it to my attention, and he informs me that you will be living as female henceforth. I wonder if you would be so good as to meet with me for lunch today? I have enclosed a portkey which will activate at 12 noon precisely, and which will bring you to the entrance hall at Hogwarts. The password to my office is ‘liquorice allsorts’._

_My warmest regards,_

_Albus Dumbledore._

 

“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked as Harriet set the letter and the coin it contained beside his plate.

“The headmaster wants me to have lunch with him today,” Harriet explained.

“Oh dear,” Hermione said. “I’d hoped we could go shopping today, get some stuff for you.”

“Maybe we should all go tomorrow,” Mrs. Weasley suggested. “Ginny needs new school robes- she’s shot up over the summer.”

“Where is Ginny?” Harriet wanted to know. “She didn’t come to bed last night.”

“She spent the night in the other bed in my room,” Ron yawned. “Don’t think she’s too chuffed about you, mate. She still had a crush on you.”

Mrs. Weasley sighed. “I’ll talk to her later, Harriet, dear. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

Harriet nodded. She didn’t want to cause problems, but Ginny had always had this crush. When she was Harry, she’d tried to like girls. She’d kissed Cho, but hadn’t really liked it. She liked Ginny, she really did, but the thought to kissing Ginny, going to bed with Ginny… the thought left her cold. It had always been about boys- Oliver Wood, Cedric Diggory. He’d had a brief crush on Seamus in fifth year. He knew enough from the whispers and sniggers and off-colour jokes not to admit to homosexuality. Except now it turned out that perhaps she’d never actually been gay… she decided not to think about it too much. It made her brain feel as if someone had stirred it with a stick.

She made sure to be holding the coin Dumbledore had sent at twelve, and felt the familiar hook yank just behind her navel, the hurtling, flying sensation, then he was dumped unceremoniously in the entrance hall.

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Harriet looked around in confusion. She was expecting Dumbledore, if anyone. Eventually, she spotted Robin Snape lurking in the shadows of the empty hall. She really wished she’d had a more graceful landing, and not ended up in a heap in front of him.

“Hello,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Came to see my dad,” he explained. “Why are you here in the summer holidays anyway?”

“Erm, meeting with the headmaster,” she choked out. “Hang on, aren’t you a squib? How are you at Hogwarts?”

His laugh was warm and deep. “Squibs aren’t muggles,” he pointed out. “Anti-muggle wards don’t work, my magic just isn’t powerful enough to bother training me. I doubt I’d even be able to turn a toothpick into a needle, but I can use floo powder to get around and brew most potions.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, feeling stupid. “Well, I’d better get going.”

“Me too,” Robin said.

Harriet turned to go, but he called out after her. “Hey, Harriet?” She turned back to look back at him. “I hope we run into each other again.”

“Oh, erm, yeah, maybe,” Harriet said. She was blushing much more easily the last couple of days, and Robin seemed to be having an effect on her. The clenching feeling in her tummy was familiar to her; the same as when Cedric had spoken to her in fourth year.

Why did she have to go and fancy Snape’s son? she wondered. The sudden image of having Snape as a father in law provoked a shudder. No matter how nice he was being, it was still Snape.

She shook her head to rid herself of the idea. How ridiculous could she be? She’d met a good looking boy twice. There was no reason to start thinking of weddings and in laws. She climbed the steps, headed for Dumbledore’s office.

“Liquorice allsorts,” she informed the guardian gargoyle, which obediently jumped aside. She hopped onto the moving staircase.

The door was open when she got to the top. “Ah, come in, come in, my dear,” Dumbledore twinkled. “My my, you certainly have changed a bit. You’re going by Harriet now?”

“Erm, yes, Professor,” Harriet stammered. Dumbledore waved her over to a seat at the little table that had appeared by the fireplace.

“Time for some lunch, dear girl,” he said. “I do find myself so peckish by this time of day if I haven’t had any elevenses. I’m sure you agree.”

“I suppose so,” Harriet agreed. As soon as she and Dumbledore were seated, plates piled with cottage pie and vegetables appeared. Dumbledore tucked in with gusto.

“I imagine this was quite a surprise for you,” he asked Harriet. She nodded, not willing to speak around a mouthful of mashed potato. “Quite so,” Dumbledore continued. “It will probably come as quite a shock to your classmates. It came as quite a shock to me. I had no idea that Lily had concocted such a plan. Of course, she was a very bright witch. The practice of disguising children has fallen quite out of fashion.”

“It used to be a common thing?” Harriet asked, surprised.

“Oh, in certain circles,” Dumbledore assured her. “Anne Boleyn killed one of her children attempting to disguise a daughter as a son to please Henry VIII, you know. She had only a herb woman to help, though, barely any magic at all. It’s no wonder she failed. And lost her head, poor dear. Your mother had Severus, though, and their magic was powerful.”

He nodded to himself and took a large mouthful of carrots. “You understand that there will be changes made to accommodate your new identity?” Dumbledore asked when he’d finished his plateful of food. He smiled with delight when a dish of treacle tart with custard replaced the vanished plate. “You’ll have to move to the girls’ dormitory, and I fear it may take some time for your classmates to adapt. I will do my best to ensure that all of your teachers refer to you using female pronouns, of course.”

Harriet nodded. “Sir, Professor Snape said something about the prophecy… about how it’s not true anymore.”

Dumbledore put down his spoon and nodded sagely. “Quite so. It specifically makes reference to a male child. It would seem now that it was meant to refer to Mr. Longbottom.”

“So… does that mean that Neville has to fight Voldemort?” Harriet wanted to know. She’d hardly dared hope that perhaps the fate of the wizarding world no longer rested on her shoulders. She’d had the concept hanging over her ever since she knew what the prophecy said; it seemed too much hope that she was free now.

“I simply don’t know, Miss Potter,” Dumbledore said. “Prophecy is a tricky thing. Voldemort may have broken it in any case, by marking you despite your sex. If that is the case, then the prophecy is null and void. It is broken. It is the duty of all of us to see the downfall of such an evil wizard. We must continue to find the horcruxes, in any case. No matter who deals the final blow, the horcruxes must be destroyed.

Harriet nodded. That made sense, at least. Even though the locket was a fake, she’d helped Dumbledore fetch it. She understood the horcruxes now. She wasn’t free, not completely. It made sense that she’d still help Dumbledore find them, and he was right, it was everyone’s job to make sure Voldemort was defeated.

“I’m not sure how Voldemort will react to the news of your change,” Dumbledore continued. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the fact that Professor Snape had a hand should not be spread around. He still maintains his precarious position as a spy, and it would be disastrous, probably even fatal to him should it come to light that he had hidden such information from Voldemort.”

Harriet nodded. “Yes, I know, Sir. Ron and Hermione know, but I haven’t told anyone else, not even Mrs. Weasley.”

“That’s wise, Harriet. Whilst I doubt Molly would spread such information, the fewer who know the better.”

Before she left, Dumbledore gave her the equipment lists for the next year, and instructed her to purchase the girl’s school uniform. She flooed straight back to the Weasley’s from Dumbledore’s fireplace.

She let herself into Ron’s bedroom. “Come on, Hermione, just one game?” Ron pleaded as she came in. Hermione had her nose buried in a book, as was usual.

“No, Ron, exploding snap can wait. I have research to do! I wonder if Professor Dumbledore would let me use the library before term starts again?”

“What are you researching?” Harriet asked, settling on Ron’s bed and holding out her hands for the deck of cards.

Hermione shoved a escaping strand of hair out her face impatiently. “I want to know what spells were used on you, to make you a boy,” she explained.

“Dumbledore said it’s an old spell. He reckoned Anne Boleyn tried it.”

“Really?” Hermione looked up in surprise. “I didn’t even know she was a witch.”

“Course she was,” Ron said, then shouted “Snap!” Harriet only just got her fingers out of the way in time. “How do you think she got the King? She can’t have been a very good one, though, because the love spell wore off.”

“Muggles believed she was a witch because she had a sixth finger,” Hermione noted. “Anyway, how did the meeting with Dumbledore go?”

Harriet sat back from the game. “Okay, I suppose. We talked about how I’ll still help with hunting horcruxes, and he told me that I can’t let on that Snape knows anything about this.”

“Obviously,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I bet Voldemort would be pretty annoyed.”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed. “Oh, and I saw Snape’s son again.”

“Woah, woah, back up,” Ron almost shouted. “Snape has a son?”

Harriet giggled. She was shocked for a moment- she was sure she’d never giggled before- but carried on, “yeah, I forgot to say. I met him yesterday- he works in a cafe in Manchester; Snape took me there to eat.”

“How old is he?” Hermione asked curiously. “I’m sure we’d know if he want to Hogwarts?”

Harriet shifted nervously, suddenly feeling like she was under scrutiny. She knew he cheeks were flushed again. “Erm, about nineteen, I think? But he’s a squib.”

A guffaw burst out of Ron’s mouth. “Snape’s son’s a squib?”

Harriet nodded. “Snape said that his mother was a muggle, so it wasn’t surprising.” Hermione was looking at her thoughtfully. She glanced away from her friend.

Ron screwed up his face. “Eww, that means some poor woman had to sleep with Snape.”

“Ronald!” Hermione squealed, gently cuffing Ron around the ears with her book. “Be polite, that’s one of our professors!”

Ron just shrugged.

Ginny appeared for dinner that evening, but remained silent and kept her eyes very carefully away from Harriet. After the plates were cleared, Mrs. Weasley set Ron and a sulky Ginny to washing dishes, and pulled Harriet off into the sitting room. Hermione stayed to help dry the dishes, and Arthur was making himself scarce somewhere, probably in his shed, so they had the living room to themselves.

Mrs. Weasley sat on the squashy sofa and patted the seat next to her. Harriet had always loved the Weasley’s sitting room. Nothing matched, but it was full of comfy seats festooned with bright blankets and cushions, all handmade by Molly over the years. “Now, Harriet, dear, I had a bit of a word with Ginny earlier. She’s going to do her best, but she’s having some trouble coming to terms with everything. I’ve cleaned out the twins’ old room for you and Hermione- I hope there’s nothing left in there from their infernal joke shop.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Harriet said. She didn’t want to make Ginny uncomfortable enough to shove her out of her own bedroom.

“That’s quite alright, dear. You should be comfortable here. After all, if the clock thinks you’re part of the family now, you should have some space of your own. You’ve always been one of my children, really- I hated sending you off to those infernal relatives of yours when you could have been here. I wish Dumbledore had let us raise you instead…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Never mind that. I wanted to give you this.” She handed over a brown paper bag.

“You gave me a present yesterday, though,” Harriet insisted. She peeked inside. “Mrs. Weasley, what is this?”

Mrs. Weasley was grinning. “It’s not necessarily a present, dear. You’re a girl now, and you’ll notice some more changes in your body. These things are for when you get your monthlies- your periods. It’s best to be prepared, in case it comes sooner rather than later. There’s some pain relieving potions in there too, in case you get cramps. If you need more, Madam Pomfrey always has a stock on hand.” Harriet blanched, and Mrs. Weasley laughed. “Oh, dear, don’t be embarrassed. It happens to the best of us.” Quite honestly, Harriet hadn’t even thought of this aspect of being a girl. She vaguely knew that girls bled once a month- she remembered a science lesson in her last year of primary school, although as far as she knew, it had never been mentioned at Hogwarts. She hadn’t been friends with Hermione when all the first year witches were pulled aside by Madam Pomfrey and shown the store cupboards where supplies and pain relievers were kept for the young witches.

“Erm, thanks,” Harriet said with a blush.

“One more thing, Harriet,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Now, I’m sure you know how sex works, but you know about it from a male point of view. I’m not going to tell you not to have sex- I’m not one to speak. I have seven children, and between you and me, if you do the maths between my wedding and Bill, you’ll come up a bit short of nine months. Enjoy yourself, but be careful. You can get pregnant now, remember. There are potions you can take to stop it, though, so if you think you might be ready, for goodness sake, take the potion.”

Harriet was sure she couldn’t get any more red. Mrs. Weasley wrapped an arm around the blushing girl. “Now, off you go and move your things into your room. I’m here if you have any questions.”

“Erm, thanks,” Harriet squeaked, and gratefully scarpered.

She’d been a bit scared of really looking at her body this far, but Mrs. Weasley’s talk made her realise that she needed to figure out what she had. She’d forgotten all about periods; what else was there that she might need to know? She set the water running in the big bath in the Weasley’s upstairs bathroom, and quickly stripped out of her clothes. She had to twist her hands uncomfortably behind her to unsnap the unfamiliar bra. It had taken a while to get it on that morning.

There was a full length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She forced herself to look at her body, really look at it. Where she’d been straight up and down before, she now curved in and out. her skin was pale. She carefully cupped her breasts in her hands, feeling their weight. They weren’t the biggest she’d ever seen- Fleur certainly won in that department. She thought she was probably just a little bigger than Hermione. The nipples were deep pink, and starting to pucker in the cool air.

She ran her hands down, over her stomach. It was rounded a little, where her male body had been flat. Her waist nipped in, just before the flare of her hips. She was on the short side of average, she thought, standing about five foot four, but her legs looked long. The triangle of dark curls hid her more private parts. it did look much neater than a penis, she decided.

Turning to the side, she eyed the curve of her backside. It was pleasing enough, she reckoned. Attractive enough, she decided. No Veela beauty, to be sure, but not exactly a troll either. Strong rather than delicate, with solid limbs and wide hips, but she’d had a favourable reaction from the twins, She wondered what Robin had thought of her.

Shaking her head at her silliness, she turned off the water and slipped into the warm bath. Deciding that she may as well act girly, she tipped some of the flowery scented bubble bath in, splashing to bring the bubbles up. She wondered if her senses and likes had changed, because she was sure she’d have found the scent cloyingly sweet as a boy, but now it was delicate and pleasant. Sighing, she leaned back.

With her eyes closed and a floor away from anyone else, it was quiet and relaxing. Even the ghoul in the attic, who had a tendency to rattle the pipes, was silent. She tipped her head back, the water seeping up into her long hair, drawing it to swirl around her in the water.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but her hands slipped down under the water and tugged at the curls where her thighs met her body. Spreading her legs as wide as allowed without pulling them up out of the bath, her fingers ran down between her thighs. She gasped when the lips separated under her fingers. She slipped them inside, exploring the folds as the water rushed into the space. Experimentally, she bent her wrist and slipped a finger slowly into her. The breath caught in her throat as the first thing to ever enter her tight channel pushed in as far as she could get it. Her muscles clamped around it, the sensation alien. Slowly, she dragged her finger out, and pulled it up through her folds again. There was a slickness now that had nothing to do with the bathwater.

She wasn’t expecting the jolt of sensation as she passed over a little lump of flesh at the top of the folds. She bit her lip and rubbed again, in a deliberate, circular motion this time. Wanking had never felt that amazing when she was male: she hadn’t really understood what all the fuss was about. This felt different, though, the curling tightness in her belly.

There was a pounding on the bathroom door. “Hey, are you going to be in there all night?” Ron shouted through the door.

She guiltily snatched her hand away. “I’ll be out soon,” she called.

“Okay. Hermione and I are in the twins’ room,” he said.

She quickly got out of the cooling bath and reached for a towel. In just a few moments, she was dry and pulling on pyjamas. She really needed to get ones that fit, she decided, buttoning the top. She hadn’t even thought of it on her shopping spree with Severus, and apparently, nor had he. She needed to find out how much she owed him, she remembered.

Hopefully she’d be better outfitted tomorrow, if they managed to go shopping.

 

 


	4. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really delighted with the number of views this fic has had in the few days it's been up. I hope you're enjoying it!  
> I'd love to hear some thoughts on it, so feel free to leave comments. Constructive criticism welcome, as well as outright adoration, of course!

“Don’t go down Knockturn alley! And be back home by five for your dinner!” Mrs. Weasley called after Hermione and Harriet. Ron looked grumpy to have been left behind, but he knew he’d be quickly bored out of his skull with the day of shopping Hermione had planned. He’d at first assumed that she meant spending the day in Flourish and Blotts, but was even more horrified when she’d explained that she and Harriet were going to get their hair cut, then to muggle womenswear shops. Helping his mother find secondhand robes to fit Ginny was bad, but it was better than an endless parade of muggle shops. At least he might get a few minutes in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Harriet wasn’t entirely sure that she didn’t just want to spend the day in there too.

“I need to go to Gringotts first, to change some money,” she said. Hermione just nodded. She’d just opened her own vault a month ago, in preparation for starting a job after school.

The tall white building had been a poignant symbol of the wizarding world for Harriet, ever since her first trip here with Hagrid. Her vault key was safe in her pocket, but she remembered what Severus had said about having more than one vault. She and Hermione passed the goblins at the front door and entered the main hall, lined with goblins at tall desks.

Harriet approached a free goblin. “Good morning,” she said.

The goblin looked up. “Good morning, Miss Potter,” he said solicitously. “We have been expecting you. Wait here, please.” He slid off his tall stool and wandered into an office.

“What’s that about?” Hermione asked. “How come he knew exactly who you are? He didn’t even seem surprised.”

Harriet shrugged. “Sn… I mean, our teachers thought that they might recognise me. Apparently they work from magical signatures, not appearances.”

The goblin reappeared with three keys clutched loosely in his hand, and a roll of parchment. “A summary of your accounts and holdings, Miss Potter,” he said, holding out the scroll, “and the keys to your vaults. This one,” he handed over a little silver key, “is the key to the vault held by Mrs. Lily Potter, this key is for the personal vault of Mr. James Potter.” Finally, he held out a large ornate key, set with a ruby. “This is the key for the hereditary Potter vault. Would you like to inspect the contents now?” Hermione gasped at the glimmering key.

Harriet shook her head. “Not today, thanks. I’ve got some other things I need to take care. I just need to make a withdrawal from my vault.”

“Very well, Miss. If you would follow me, please?”

Twenty minutes later, with her stock of galleons replenished and a hefty wad of twenty pound notes in her pocket, Harriet and Hermione headed out into muggle London.

“What do you think is in the Potter vault?” Hermione wanted to know. “Did you even know you had other vaults?”

“Not until two days ago,” Harriet admitted. “I thought there was enough to last a lifetime in the vault I knew about.”

“Well, I know where to go if I’m ever penniless,” Hermione joked, steering Harriet into a hair salon.

It was still early enough to be quiet. Harriet had no idea what to say when the stylist asked what she wanted. Luckily, Hermione jumped in. “A wash, cut and blow dry, please, for both of us. Harriet wants a fringe cut in, and taken up to shoulder length. I just want a trim, please.”

Harriet soon found herself bent over a sink as the hairdresser worked her long, sharp nails along her scalp, rubbing in shampoo. “You’ve got lovely thick hair,” she told her charge. “What products do you use?”

“Erm, just shampoo,” Harriet said, not sure that there was anything else.

“Ooh, hair like yours really needs a good conditioner. It’ll make it much easier to comb. We sell a lovely one. It’ll make your hair so silky.”

“Okay,” Harriet agreed, feeling stupid. Figuring out all this girl stuff was going to be hard, she decided. She really hoped Hermione was up to being asked lots of stupid questions. Asking Hermione had to be better than another ‘girl talk’ with Mrs. Weasley.

“There, all done,” her hairdresser said half an hour later, holding a mirror up behind Harriet to show her the back of her head. She did feel much lighter, and she hoped that less hair meant less to constantly get in her face

The messiness of her boy hair had been hiding soft waves. A sideswept fringe hid the lightning scar completely. Harriet smiled. “It looks great, thank you.” The hairdresser insisted on selling her not only conditioner, but the matching shampoo and some kind of mousse. As appreciated as the haircut was, Harriet had the distinct impression that she’d been duped on the products. She was sure that none of them could match to their magical alternatives, like sleekeazy. She’d seen the results on Hermione’s hair at the Yule Ball.

The rest of the morning passed in a whirl of shops that Hermione dragged Harriet in and out of at breakneck speed. In every one, Hermione piled clothes in Harriet’s arms and dispatched her to the fitting rooms, making her try on and model outfit after outfit to be ‘yay-ed’ or ‘nay-ed’. In Next, the shop assistant even stood and watched, giving her own opinion. Hermione even talked Harriet into some pink tops, although Harriet was sure that Ron would wet himself laughing; and if he didn’t, the twins would. Twice, the girls had to duck into deserted alleys to shrink down the shopping bags, and Harriet’s supply of muggle money was much diminished by the time Hermione called a stop for lunch.

“So,” Hermione said, pulling a folded piece of paper and a pen from her bag after they’d ordered, “You had plenty of underwear. We’ve bought you jeans, t-shirts, jumpers…” she started ticking items off her list. “Blouses, school skirts, a dress… we just need to get you some tights, some school shoes, and toiletries. Then we can go back to Diagon Alley and get school robes. Your old ones will be too big.”

“I’m still not convinced on the dress,” Harriet grumbled. It was a dark green affair, at least bringing out the colour of her eyes, but it felt hideously girly to Harriet. She still felt a little like some kind of cross-dressing fraud in her new girl's clothes.

“You looked amazing in it. You should have something nice,” Hermione responded. She was still distracted by her list. “Maybe we should get you something more formal too… and some high heels.”

“I am not wearing high heels,” Harriet said firmly. “They look like death traps. I like my feet on the ground if my arse isn’t on a broom.”

Hermione tried to glare, but couldn’t help a chuckle overflowing. “Okay, then, no high heels for now,” she acquiesced. “I suppose if you’re invited to any formal events, you can get a dress nearer the time.” She folded up her list again, tucking it back in her handbag.

Harriet grinned slyly and pulled the scroll she’d received from the Gringotts goblins from her pocket. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m dying to know what’s on here.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up with the prospect of knowing what was in the Potter vault. “I didn’t want to ask in case it was rude,” she admitted.

Harriet grinned. “Nah, you’re my best friend. Who else can I share this with if not you and Ron?” She unrolled the parchment and laid it flat on the table, weighing each end down with their drinks.

 

_Contents of the vaults belonging to Miss Harriet Potter as of the 2nd of August, 1996_

_Vault 3359, belonging to Harriet Potter_

_6439 galleons, nine sickles and 12 knuts_

_Deeds to the properties: 12 Grimmauld Place_

_Black Vineyards, Bordeaux_

_Vault 2981, belonging to Harriet Potter, bequeathed by the late Lily Potter_

_3908 Galleons and 23 knuts_

_One platinum and diamond engagement ring_

_One platinum wedding ring_

_One gold pendant_

_Four pairs of earrings in silver_

_Vault 2018, belonging to Harriet Potter, bequeathed by the late James Potter_

_7849 galleons, 18 sickles and 2 knuts_

_One golden snitch_

_One platinum wedding ring_

_Vault 904- Potter vault_

_102983 galleons, 16 sickles and three knuts_

_One 22 carat gold ring belonging to the head of the Potter household_

_Eighteen assorted works of art, valued at 5000 galleons_

_One chest of jewels, comprising eight necklaces, five bracelets, seven rings, eight pairs of earrings, one tiara, three unset diamonds together equalling six carats and 24 small gems (rubies, emeralds, sapphires)_

_106 piece dinner set bearing the Potter crest_

_98 piece cutlery canteen in sterling silver_

_60 piece dinner set in red and gold_

_One suit of armour_

_Deeds to the properties: Potter house, Godric’s Hollow_

_74 Marylebone Road, London_

_12 Witch’s Crescent, Edinburgh_

_At present, 20 galleons are removed each month from vault 2018 and placed into vault 3359, on instruction from James Potter, dated 19th November 1979._

_Your personal banker is the goblin Silverjoy. Please contact him with any instructions regarding your holdings or banking needs._

 

“I have a suit of armour?” was all Harriet could manage.

“Never mind the suit of armour, you’ve got over a hundred thousand galleons just in cash! Plus five houses- I know one’s a ruin and one’s order headquarters, but still!” Hermione struggled to keep her voice to appropriate levels. She quickly rolled the parchment and shoved it back towards Harriet, seconds before their food arrived.

Harriet poked her ravioli with her fork. She’d known for years that she was wealthy: the healthy pile of gold in her vault had reassured her of that. She’d never asked for it to be counted, though; until Severus had told her, she hadn’t known that the goblins offered such a service. But before, it had just been a pile of gold. She’d had no idea that it was just what her parents had put aside for her, and that there was more than she could even conceive of in another, older vault.

“How much room does a hundred-piece dinner set take up, d’you think?” she eventually asked Hermione, and popped a piece of ravioli in her mouth. “Why is it even in a bank and not one of the houses?”

“I’ve no idea,” her friend replied, “but, God, what you could do with that gold! All the people you could help! You could give charitable donations until you went blue in the face and not dent that lot!”

Trust Hermione to think of charities, Harriet thought with a grin. If it were Ron, he’d be calculating the cost of broomsticks and a lifetime season ticket to the Canons, with a side of Honeydukes sweets.

“Yeah, that’s a lot of wooly hats and socks,” Harriet said, carefully keeping a straight face.

Hermione reached across the table to punch her lightly on the arm. “Be nice,” she said, but her grin and light tone belied her words.

Both girls were relieved to get back to Diagon Alley. Harriet was exhausted from the whirlwind trips in and out of changing rooms, and thought she’d never want to get dressed again. Despite the fact that both witches had been raised in the muggle world, the wizarding one was their safe space, the world where they didn’t have to hide. Most witches and wizards were uncomfortable when out and about amongst muggles, because the muggles couldn’t comprehend them, and they had to completely hide such a large part of their identities, their very selves. To a witch or wizard, to live without magic was unthinkable. Even Hagrid kept his wand pieces in his pink umbrella.

“Come on,” Hermione said. “Let’s get Madam Malkin’s out of the way first, then we can get our books.”

“No offence, Hermione, but I’ve decided that big shopping trips really aren’t my thing,” Harriet moaned, trailing behind a little. Hermione huffed and stopped for a moment so Harriet could rest. Her legs were shorter than she was used to now.

“Nor me, really,” Hermione admitted. “I have to say, though, it’s more fun shopping for someone else instead of myself. And when my mum isn’t along trying to put me in frilly things.”

Harriet couldn’t help laughing at that one, a sudden image of Hermione in some sort of pink glittery tu-tu.

“Got a new friend, mudblood?” a familiar voice drawled. Malfoy’s hand landed on Harriet’s shoulder, and he wrenched her around to face him.

“Ow!” she protested, pulling her arm from his grasp. She tried to look anywhere but into his flat grey eyes, knowing that if he looked too hard, he’d surely know she was familiar. He’d spent long enough as Harriet’s nemesis. She was glad for the heavy fringe that covered her scar.

Malfoy smiled. “I haven’t seen you before,” he noted, the sun glinting paley off his slicked, shining hair. “I’d remember a pretty girl. Where’d Granger find you?”

Harriet gulped. Malfoy didn’t recognise her, which meant he didn’t know yet. That must mean that Voldemort didn’t know either, but she had no idea what to say. Hermione rescued her, reaching out to take her wrist. “Shove off Malfoy,” the bushy haired witch spat, “and crawl back into whichever foetid hole you came from.”

“Honestly. Turns out even six years of decent education can’t teach some people manners,” Malfoy grumbled. “You don’t know how good you’ve got it, Granger. Try a little humility.” He stalked off with a sniff, and Harriet shuddered.

“Ugh. I can’t believe he touched me. Come on, let’s finish up quickly, so we can leave.”

 

 


	5. Arrival at Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've acquired a helpful proofreader, so with any luck, this chapter will have fewer capitalisation errors and general grammar malarky than the previous!  
> Enjoy!

There was a lot more to being a girl than Harriet had anticipated when she’d made the decision so quickly in the back room of a Manchester cafe, and she had the feeling that Hermione was possibly not the best teacher of the feminine arts. For a start, Hermione had very little idea of the charms and potions usually used by witches to maintain their appearance. Mrs. Weasley tried to help, but it had been some time since she was a teenaged witch. Harriet reckoned that Ginny would have been her best bet, but the littlest Weasley was still furious at the hand that fate had dealt her.

She’d always thought, she confided to Mrs. Weasley, that someday, she’d be married to Harry. She’d certainly never realised that the object of her affections preferred men; the thought had never occurred to her. Harry had been in her life for six years. Harry had saved her from Tom Riddle. She knew Harry; she just couldn’t bring herself to accept Harriet in his place. No matter how much her frustrated mother explained that it was the same person, that it was Harriet who had been real and Harry the illusion, no matter how many times she pointed out that this had just happened to Harriet without her say-so, Ginny couldn’t manage more than a strangled ‘hello’ to Harriet. She spent a lot of time in her bedroom, doing what, no-one knew.

The month of August rolled past in a series of long, lazy days of lie-ins and admonishments from Hermione to get some work done in preparation for the new year. NEWTs, as she pointed out, came only once. If they failed, they would have no chance at a good job.

Ron grumbled that he was sure the twins would give him a job. “Yeah, as a product tester,” Harriet pointed out. “You’d be testing skiving snackboxes all day.”

Ron blanched. He’d been the unwitting tester for his brothers’ pranks too many times. It wasn’t something he wanted to do as a career. Harriet thought that it was a good point, though. For all Hermione had blustered about schoolwork every year, this was the last chance to get it right, and the year where they had further to fall. For the first time, Harriet actually began to worry about the future. For the last few years, there had always been the niggling doubt that there would even be a future for her, with the threat of Voldemort looming large. And if there was, well, people would fall over each other to offer a job to the ‘boy-who-lived’. But now, she supposed she was ‘the-girl-who-lived-but-looked-like-a-boy-at-the-time’, and that was too much of a mouthful for anyone. So far, everyone had told her that the world at large would have trouble accepting her in her new body. She was reasonably certain that Ron believed her now, and Hermione had apparently accepted it without any doubt, even if she was itching to lose herself in the Hogwarts library and find the spells used.

Her friend’s acceptance of the situation, though, didn’t really quell the nerves she felt as she dressed early on the morning of the first of September. Since her birthday, she’d really only been in contact with the Weasleys and Hermione. Soon, though, she’d be on a train with almost four hundred other students. There was nowhere to hide on a train. At least Hogwarts was full of nooks and crannies and secret rooms where you could take cover for an hour or two. She sighed. Maybe everyone would be too excited about sharing their summer news to notice that Harry Potter was missing, and a girl who looked a lot like him had appeared.

“Everything okay?” Hermione asked, sitting back on her heels. She was quite proud of herself, having just placed an undetectable extension charm on her trunk. The stack of parchment she’d transfigured into a bookcase in there made packing so much easier. “You’re not nervous, are you?” she asked.

“Well, yeah,” Harriet admitted. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Hermione sat on her bed, folding jumpers and dropping them into her trunk. “They’ll all find out anyway, so there’s really no point wasting energy on nerves,” she said pragmatically. “Worrying won’t change anything.”

“Well, fine,” Harriet huffed. “You try not worrying when you’re going to have to tell everyone you know that you’ve been living a lie and weren’t the person they thought you were all these years!”

She threw the last of her supplies into her own trunk and flounced out of the room. “Harriet!” Hermione called after her, but didn’t come to find her. Harriet was glad. She went down to join Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asked when Harriet perched at the big kitchen table, scrubbed until it was smooth as butter and almost white. She slid the first plate of bacon and eggs over to her. “You look a little peaky. Did you sleep well?” She laid a warm hand across Harriet’s forehead. “I hope you aren’t sickening for something. You need your strength up for starting school.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Harriet said.

“I know you better than that,” Mrs Weasley said. She sat down across the table from Harriet. “It’s going back to school that’s worrying you, isn’t it?” she asked kindly. “You’ve always loved the first of September before.”

“But what if they hate me?” Harriet wanted to know.

Mrs Weasley patted his hand. “If they hate you, then they were never your friends,” she said. “You will always have friends here, Harriet. We will all support you. Professor Dumbledore is behind you, and I’m sure he won’t allow anything to happen to you.”

Harriet privately wasn’t sure about that one. Dumbledore could appear as a lovely old man, and he was obviously very knowledgeable, but you couldn’t deny that he placed people in danger to achieve his ends. After all, he’d taken her into a cave full of undead creatures to retrieve a horcrux. That couldn’t be considered safe on any level. “I suppose so,” she said with a weak smile. Before they could say anything else, Ron and Ginny thundered down into the kitchen, demanding breakfast. Harriet scooted to the furthest corner of the table to give Ginny space.

It was a good job that Harriet hadn’t managed much by way of breakfast, because by the time she was on the platform at a quarter to eleven, her stomach was clenching in knots. “C’mon,” Ron said, leading the way to their usual carriage at the end of the train.

Hermione grimaced. “Sorry, I’ve got to go up to the prefects’ carriage,” she said.

“Oh yeah, what with being head girl and all,” Ron grumbled.

“Well, you should be there too, Ronald,” she informed him sharply. “You are a prefect.”

“Ugh, fine,” Ron said. He clomped off down the platform after Hermione, and Harriet found herself alone. She shut herself in the very last compartment of the train, and pulled out The Auror’s Handbook. Mad-Eye had sent it to her for her birthday, but Harriet wasn’t even sure she wanted to be an auror anymore. It had always been about fighting Voldemort. She hadn’t really realised just how responsible she felt for it all; how much she felt that it was her job to rid the world of the dark wizard. Now, though, realising that the prophecy Trelawney had made could never have referenced her, she just felt used. It shouldn’t be her job, her sole responsibility to defeat him.

A few minutes after the train pulled out of King’s Cross, the compartment door slid open and Neville peered in. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I was looking for someone else. You haven’t seen Harry Potter anywhere, have you?”

“It’s me, Neville,” Harriet said.

Neville did a double take and peered at her. “Are you in disguise?” he asked, puzzled.

“Sit down,” Harriet said, waving at the seat on the other side.

Luna followed Neville in. “Hello, Harriet,” she said, dreamily. “Did you have a nice summer? Daddy and I went hunting Lirewimmels in the Alps. We didn’t find any though.”

“How did you know?” Harriet demanded.

“About the Lirewimmels? Well, you can always tell when they’ve been about, on account of the sparkles,” she informed him seriously.

“No, about me?”

She propped her feet in the seat next to him, her long legs easily spanning the distance. “Well, you are Harriet now, aren’t you?”

“Hang on,” Neville said. “What’s going on?”

Harriet put down her book. She’d spent ages thinking about how to explain this, but she hadn’t come up with a good way. “I’m a girl now,” she said. “Well, it turns out I was always a girl, I was just under a spell to make me look like a boy. But the spell’s worn off now.”

Neville’s brow crinkled. “You never said.”

“I didn’t know. It happened when I was a baby,” Harriet explained. “It’s really hard to explain; I don’t really understand it myself. I think Hermione’s going to try to find out more.”

“So… when will you turn back?” Neville asked.

Harriet stared at him in disbelief. Luna patted Neville’s knee. “She’s already turned back,” she explained kindly. “Harry never really existed. She was Harriet all along, she just looked like Harry.”

“I don’t get it,” Neville complained.

“It’s okay, Neville, nor do I,” Harriet said.

Ron reappeared after an hour, flopping down into the seat next to Harriet. He was careful not to touch her, though, a politeness he’d never had offered to Harry. “There’s whispers all up and down the train that there’s a new girl starting,” he told them.

Harriet groaned. “Aww, don’t worry, mate, they’d all have found out anyway,” Ron reassured him.

Hermione spent most of the journey roaming the corridors of the train, looking for troublemakers, bullies, and purveyors of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products. She deigned to join them for a brief lunch break and a chat before going through the train again, reminding everyone to be dressed in their uniforms on arrival into Hogsmeade.

She joined them again in time to get the same carriage up to the school. “Don’t look now,” she hissed to Harriet, “but Malfoy’s got his eyes fixed on you.”

“I know,” Harriet mumbled back. “I can practically feel it.”

They couldn’t escape him completely. Harriet climbed down first from the magical vehicle, only to come face to face with Malfoy leaning against a low stone wall. “We meet again,” he said with a smile. “You’re clearly too old for a first year. I’m simply dying to know your story. Shall we walk up to the castle together? You can do better than that motley bunch for company.”

“No thanks, Malfoy,” Harriet snapped. Malfoy just sniffed and turned, his long strides easily catching him up to Zabini and Pansy. His goons hadn’t returned after OWLs, having not received a single passing grade between them.

“He’s creepier than ever,” Ron muttered. Even Luna agreed.

Even though she was nervous, Harriet couldn’t help a grin as they entered the great hall. The enchanted sky was twinkling with stars, far more than you’d see outside. Something about the big, grand room, the shining, polished plates and the floating candles always made her happy. It was such a potent example of magic, every stone imbued with centuries of it.

Ron elbowed her in the side. “Look,” he hissed, gesturing to the head table, where Sprout was in deep discussion with none other than Lupin. “Did you know he’d be back?”

“Nope,” Harriet said. Her smile just grew.

“That’s wicked!” Ron grinned.

Even Hermione agreed. “At least we know we’re getting a decent teacher for defence this year. I’m surprised no one thought to mention it, though. Are you sure Dumbledore didn’t tell you, Harriet?”

Lupin’s gaze fell on them. Ron waved. Lupin smiled, and raised an eyebrow at Harriet. He certainly recognised her.

As soon as the plates had vanished, Dumbledore got to his feet. “Good evening, everyone,” he called. The hubbub of chatter died down immediately. “I have the usual start of term announcements for you. For our new first years: welcome. Please note that the forest is out of bounds to all students, and that magic is not permitted in the corridors between lessons. I’m sure several of our older students would also benefit from the reminder.

“Now, it gives me great pleasure to introduce Professor Lupin to those of you who are not already acquainted with him. Professor Lupin is returning to us to take up the post as our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher once more. In addition, we very unusually welcome a new student. Miss Jeanine Hargraves has come to us from the Salem witches' institue.”

Harriet could see Malfoy staring at her again. He clearly thought that she was Jeanine Hargraves. Dumbledore continued. “Miss Hargraves has already been sorted, and is joining our fifth year Ravenclaws. I’m sure we will all have much to learn from her.”

The look on Malfoy’s face was priceless. His head snapped around to the Ravenclaw table, then back to the Gryffindor. Dumbledore still hadn’t finished. “In one last notice, one of our students has returned to us somewhat altered. Harry Potter is now Harriet Potter following the removal of an undetected enchantment. Magic truly is a wondrous thing.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “And now, off to bed, everyone, to be well rested for the joys of the morrow.”

The hall exploded into chatter before Dumbledore had even finished, and it seemed that every student was craning to get a look at Harriet. The blood rushed into her cheeks. “I’m going to Gryffindor tower,” she murmured to Ron and Hermione, who still had to gather up the first years. “I’ll see you there.”

She was halfway up the stairs to the boy’s dormitories when she remembered that she wouldn’t be sleeping there this year. Sure enough, when she peeked into what was now the seventh years’ room, there was one less bed. She trudged back down the stairs, just in time to meet with the gaggle of upper years arriving from the great hall. She was instantly surrounded.

“Can I get a picture, Harry? You look different now!” Colin Creevy wanted to know.

Dean shoved through the knot of people and peered at Harriet. “You get hit by some spell, Potter?”

“No, I…” Harriet trailed off as more and more people started throwing questions, ranging from what to call her to bald enquiries about her genitalia. She shoved her way through and up the steps to the girls’ dorms instead. If proof of her sex was needed; here it was: no klaxon sounded, and the stairs did not eject her. They stayed resolutely stair-like, with no hint of slipperiness at all. A stray thought slipped through her head: had the stairs only reacted to Ron, that time in fifth year? Maybe she’d have always been able to access the girls’ rooms.

She found the seventh year dorm easily enough, the door marked with a sign as on the boys’ side. She spotted her trunk at the end of a bed, and flopped down, her head in her hands. Then she realised something was wrong. She looked around. The beds. There were only five, but with her, there should have been six girls. She couldn’t see Hermione’s things by any of the beds. Then she remembered; the head girl had her own rooms, elsewhere in the castle. She’d been relying on Hermione’s help, but it looked like she was on her own. She silently cursed her friend for not at least thinking to come up to make sure she was alright.

The door flew open, and Parvati and Lavender burst in in a tumble of giggles. Lavender stopped dead. “You can’t sleep here,” she sneered. “You’re not a girl.”

Harriet didn’t really have an answer to that. “Yes I am,” she stated dumbly.

“You’ve been a boy up until now.” Lavender crossed her arms and stared Harriet down. Parvati mimicked her.

“I’m too tired for this,” Harriet declared. She pulled the curtains around her bed closed and changed into her pyjamas in the safety of the semi-darkness. She heard Fay and Imogen come in, but neither made any comment about her. She slithered into the warmth of the quilts, and almost immediately fell asleep. Her bed might be in a different dormitory, but it felt like the same bed, cocooned in the red and gold curtains.

She had no idea how long she’d been asleep when the water splattered over her. Spluttering, she sat up, one hand grasping for her glasses. An enchanted bucket hovered over the bed, slowly refilling with water. All the curtains of the other beds were closed, but she could definitely hear suppressed giggles. The bucket upended again.

She pulled a blanket off her bed and stomped down to the common room. The fire was still burning, so she spelled the blanket dry and curled up on the sofa. Sleep took longer to come this time.

 

 


	6. Friends in high places

“Wake up, mate,” Ron hissed, shaking Harriet’s shoulder.

“Wha‘time’s it?” Harriet slurred, rolling over.

“Just after seven. Neville saw you down here and fetched me. Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”

Harriet sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her glasses had fallen off sometime in the night. She fished around the cushions for them. It was a good job that they were the wizarding glasses she’d bought last month, charmed to be unbreakable. “They chucked water over my bed,” she said with a yawn.

“They chucked water on your bed?” Ron parroted back. “What, when you were in the bed?”

“Asleep,” Harriet confirmed.

Ron grimaced. “Aww, that’s not on,” he said. “You can’t do that to anyone, ‘specially not a girl.”

Harriet stood and gathered her blanket. “I reckon it was because I’m a girl, actually. Don’t go to breakfast without me.” She tramped off towards the spiral staircase, her legs still heavy with sleep. As she climbed, she could already hear giggles, the girls getting up for the day.

The dormitory was still silent, eerily so. Harriet shut the door as quietly as she could, hoping to dress and leave as quickly as she could. When she turned, though, she gasped and swore.

The contents of her trunk were strewn over the floor. There were clothes scattered into the corners of the room. Underwear festooned her bed curtains, held in place with sticking charms. Harriet glanced around feverishly, looking for her invisibility cloak and the Marauder’s Map. Sh spotted the map  still resting inside the overturned trunk: it would have just looked like scrap parchment. She couldn’t see the silvery material of the cloak anywhere, though.

She yanked back the curtains of her bed. A scream bubbled in her chest, but it wouldn’t come out. Her broomstick, her prized Firebolt, lay across her bed, the twigs snapped and scattered, and gouges taken out of the handle. The cloak was nowhere to be seen. One by one, she went to each bed, yanking back the curtains in turn. Some were rumpled, some perfectly made, but each was also perfectly empty.

Harriet tried one deep breath, then two, wanting to push down the bile rising in her throat. Seething, she located some clothes and robes, dressing as quickly as she could. She stuffed the Marauder’s map into her pocket and snatched up her ruined broom.

She marched down to the common room again. “What’s going on?” Ron asked, scampering to keep up as Harriet climbed through the portrait hole. “What happened to your broom?”

“We’re going to Dumbledore.”

Years of sneaking about the castle, avoiding Filch and Snape had taught them the best ways to go. “Liquorice allsorts,” Harriet snapped at the gargoyle. She’d been afraid that the password would have changed, but the gargoyle jumped obligingly aside.

Harriet didn’t even bother to knock at the door, she just burst in. Ron almost crashed straight into her back when she pulled up short. Snape was sitting across the desk from Dumbledore.

“Can it wait, Miss Potter?” Dumbledore asked mildly. “Lunchtime, perhaps?”

Snape stood and turned. “Harriet, what’s wrong?” he questioned quietly. “What has happened to your broom?”

“It was vandalised overnight,” Harriet said, striding forward to plonk the broom on the headmaster’s desk. It shed a few more twigs over his paperwork and that morning’s Daily Prophet. “My things are spread all over the room, and…” she stopped suddenly, and glanced at Snape, realising that the Potions master was the only one in the room not to know about the invisibility cloak. She decided to continue, “I can’t find my cloak.” She gave Dumbledore a meaningful look, hoping he would realise which cloak she meant.

“Surely,” Dumbledore commented, “you would have heard such destruction?”

“I wasn’t in the room,” Harriet admitted. “They chucked water over my bed, so I slept in the common room.”

“Headmaster, this cannot be allowed,” Snape said.

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him. He picked up a broom twig and twirled it between his fingers. “Who was it that did this, Harriet?” he asked.

“The seventh year girls,” Harriet said, feeling that this should be obvious.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “But you didn’t see them do it? None of them had admitted it?”

“Well, no but…”

Dumbledore cut her off. “I will ask Professor McGonagall to speak to the girls,” he said. “I’m sure there is some misunderstanding. Now, off you go to breakfast, or you will be late.”

Harriet nodded, feeling deflated. She turned and left the room, the sad remnants of her broomstick in her hand. It certainly wouldn’t fly again. She’d have to order a new one, but she loved her Firebolt. A broom was more than just wood and twigs and enchantment; it was freedom, power, a friend. People kept the same brooms for years, nurturing them with beeswax polish and giving them names.

Before she shut the door, Snape began to speak. “Albus, this can’t be allowed to continue…”

Harriet didn’t hear the headmaster’s response.

She tucked the remains of her broomstick under the bench, and reached for a piece of toast. She’d only just buttered it and taken a bite, though, when McGonagall appeared behind her. “A word, please, Potter, in my office,” she demanded.

“That was quick!” Ron said.

“Your presence will not be required, Mr. Weasley. Potter, if you would?”

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming,” Harriet assured her. She gathered her broom and the toast, and followed her head of house out of the great hall.

They met Hermione just outside. “Harriet!” she exclaimed. “Is everything alright?”

McGonagall cut across any answer Harriet might have given. “Get along to breakfast, Miss Granger. You may speak to each other later on.” Hermione was left open mouthed as the professor swept Harriet away.

They were silent until they reached McGonagall’s office. She pointed her student to a seat and settled herself behind her solid desk. “What do you remember of last night, Miss Potter?” she asked.

Harriet wasn’t really sure what she meant. “Erm, well, I remember being drenched in water?” she ventured. Shouldn’t McGonagall have been telling her that she’d do something about her stuff?

“Drenched in water?” McGonagall asked incredulously. “You were having nightmares about being wet?”

“Nightmares, professor?”

“Yes, Potter, nightmares. Miss Brown was in some distress when she came to me this morning to tell me that you had woken in the middle of the night and begun to throw your belongings about the room. I naturally presumed you must have been suffering from night terrors of some kind.”

“No, Professor,” Harriet said with a frown. “Lavender told me that she didn’t want me sleeping in the girl’s room. I went to bed, then was woken up by a bucket of water charmed over me. I slept in the common room instead, and when I went up this morning, all my stuff was strewn over the floor and my broom was broken.” She held up her bedraggled broom as proof.

McGonagall frowned. “You’ve had a shock recently. It wouldn’t be unusual for you to experience symptoms like night terrors. It’s no shame, Potter.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t have nightmares! Everything I just told you; it’s the truth!”

“Now, now, no need to get snippy,” she chided.

Harriet jumped to her feet. “Why don’t you ever believe me?” she demanded. “None of you! You didn’t believe me about putting my name in the Goblet. You didn’t believe me when I said someone wanted the stone! I was right, though, wasn’t I?”

“Potter, calm yourself!” she admonished. “I’ve never heard such things from Miss Brown before, and you are prone to nightmares given your connection to You Know Who. You can understand why I find her version of the tale the most likely scenario.”

“Fine. Fine.” Harriet spat out. “I’ll just find somewhere else to sleep, where my mere presence won’t terrify precious Lavender.” She marched out of McGonagall’s office, slamming the door far louder than was necessary. She felt better.

“Steady on there!” the knight in the portrait outside the door howled after her as she started down the hall at a run.

She met Hermione and Ron hurrying in the other direction, towards her. “Here,” Hermione said, shoving her book bag at her. “I fetched this for you. And I found your cloak. It was under your bed. The house elves are tidying your things.” She peered more closely at Harriet. “Are you… crying?”

“No,” Harriet replied, dashing away a tear before it could run down her cheek. Hermione looked around and hustled them into an empty classroom.

“What is it?” Ron wanted to know. “Didn’t McGonagall sort it?”

“Lavender told her I had nightmares and started tearing up my own stuff.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Ron exploded. “Like you’d ever destroy your broom! You love your broom! I’m going to go and tell her…”

Hermione grabbed Ron’s wrist. “Think, Ron. She’s not going to be believe you any more than she did Harriet. You weren’t there. I’ll catch Lavender later, see what her problem is. And I’ll see if I can get the others to go to McGonagall and tell her the truth. Fay and Imogen are alright, Lavender and Parvati just bully them into submission.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harriet said. Hermione held out a handkerchief

“Come on, we’d better get going. We’ve got potions first. Your timetable’s in your bag.”

They dashed into potions with ten seconds to spare before Snape swept in. “I need not tell you,” he purred, “that this class will be even more dangerous and difficult that in any previous year. Therefore, I require your complete attention.” He reached the lectern and swept his robes about him. “We will start with one of the simpler potions, to allow the dunderheads amongst you to leave behind the idleness of your holidays. You will find the instructions for a restoration draught on the board.” He waved a wandless hand towards the blackboard, and his sloping writing filled it immediately.

He swept up and down the aisles as his students scurried to gather supplies and ingredients. “Chopped, not minced, Potter,” he snarled. “Start the iceroot again.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harriet said quietly. She’d hoped that Snape might treat her better in lessons now; but she should have known better. He still had to keep up appearances. It couldn’t be common knowledge that Snape had anything to do with her transformation.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Snape snapped twenty minutes later, vanishing the contents of Harriet’s cauldron just as it bubbled over. “What is wrong with you today, Potter? You’re even more careless than usual!” He sighed deeply. “There’s no point you starting the potion again. Go into the storeroom and put the beetle eyes in the jars. You’ll see me at the end of the lesson.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harriet replied, quite dejected. Now she was going to be told off by Snape too. She had thought he might have been on her side.

The urn of beetle eyes was huge, and the jars were small, but Harriet found herself soothed by the ‘shhhh’ sound the tiny black eyes made as they funneled into the glass receptacles. It didn’t seem long until Snape came for her.

He hooked a stool over to the storeroom table with his foot and perched. “What happened, Harriet?” he asked quietly, and not unkindly.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I was distracted.”

“I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me Severus when we’re alone,” he gently reminded. Her heart leaped. He wasn’t angry with her. He was still on her side. “I meant what happened this morning, with Minerva? Has she spoken to the guilty parties?”

“No,” Harriet admitted, her voice rough. “She says I was having nightmares, that I did it myself.”

She glanced up. The crease between his brows was deep, his frown severe. “You told her what happened?”

Harriet nodded. “She said I’d had nightmares before, so it was more likely than the girls wrecking my stuff.”

“Has she made other arrangements for your sleeping quarters?”

“No… well, I don’t know. I sort of… stormed off before she had a chance to say anything. I said I’d find somewhere else,” Harriet admitted. “Maybe I can bunk in with Hermione.”

“I will speak to the Headmaster,” Snape promised. “I am sorry that I can’t do more for you, openly, but I will do what I can to make this easier for you, Harriet.”

Harriet nodded, still rather dejected. “They all hate me,” she complained.

A wry smile quirked the corners of Severus’s lips. “Such is the way of life, I am afraid. Do not feel alone, Harriet. They all hate me as well.”

That actually teased a grin out of Harriet. She was a fine one to be complaining to Severus that no one liked her. He was the greasy bat of the dungeons: hated, feared, reviled. Snape took the funnel from her, and sent her off to Charms. Flitwick didn’t seem to mind that she was a couple of minutes late, he just grinned at her as she slipped into her seat next to Hermione.

Harriet was hungry by the time lunch came around, having had just half a piece of toast at breakfast. She filled her plate and started to shovel food into her mouth. “Whoa, slow down,” Ron joked, “or there’ll be nothing left for me to eat.”

“Sorry,” Harriet mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potato. “Hungry. What’ve we got this afternoon?” She hadn’t yet had a spare moment to check her timetable.

“Nothing,” Ron informed her gleefully. “Free afternoon. Want to have a fly around?” His face fell when he suddenly remembered the fate of the firebolt. “Or not. But you could borrow a school broom?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harriet said, swallowing her mouthful.

“Free lessons are supposed to be for doing your homework, boys,” Hermione grumbled. She looked up from her book. “Oops, sorry, Harriet. Boy and girl.”

Harriet just shook her head. She should have expected it. “Everyone else thinks i’m still a boy anyway,” she said.

“Oh, Harriet,” Hermione sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you’re a girl. It’s just force of habit.” She carefully marked her place in her book and put it aside. “They’ll get used to it,” she promised. “It’s just a shock.”

Harriet never got the chance to protest that surely the biggest shock was hers, and that most people in shock didn’t destroy broomsticks worth hundreds of galleons. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. “A word, Harry… et,” Dumbledore said, quickly correcting her name.

“Yes, Professor,” Harriet said heavily. If even Dumbledore and Hermione were getting it wrong, what chance did anyone else have?

She obediently followed Dumbledore out of the great hall. It would seem that she was destined not to have a full meal today. Dumbledore did not take her up to his office; though. Instead, he stopped outside a portrait down a little used corridor on the way to the dungeons. “Hermaphroditus,” the headmaster told the mermaid in the portrait firmly. She said nothing, but the portrait obligingly slid away, revealing a door. “After you,” Dumbledore said, waving Harriet through the door. Puzzled, Harriet stepped through.

A little room was on the other side, just big enough to fit her bed, trunk and a little chest of drawers with a mirror. A small fire was already lit, warming the stone. it was always a bit cold this close to the dungeons.

“It would seem that you can no longer stay in the dormitories,” Dumbledore said heavily. “This would seem to be the best solution. There is a small bathroom through the other door.”

“Professor,” Harriet began, “what about my broom?”

“Madam Hooch will have a catalogue. I’m sure she would let you borrow it to order a new broom,” the headmaster said. “Now, if you hurry, you will be back in time for pudding. You may, of course, change the password for this room as you will.”

“Thank you,” Harriet said. She was sure that Dumbledore didn’t believe her about what had happened. Of course, she thought wryly, it was easier to believe that she was unstable. That was nothing new. Dumbledore tended to believe her though. Well, she reckoned, she wasn’t his precious boy-who-lived anymore, the hope for the future.

“All sorted, then?” Hermione asked as Harriet rejoined them in the hall. Typical, she mused. There was no pudding left.

“I’ve got my own room now,” Harriet said. “I’ll show you now, if you want?”

“I have Arithmancy,” Hermione explained. “This evening?”

Harriet nodded, then beamed as Ron slid the extra dish of crumble and custard he’d been hiding across the table to her. “Hey, Ron, I’m going to get a broomstick catalogue from Hooch after lunch. Would you help me pick?”

“Yeah!” Ron said, perking up quite a bit. Harriet idly wondered if Ron would accept a new broom as a Christmas present- his Cleansweep was ancient and had  tendency to drift upwards if not managed with a firm hand.

Madam Hooch, it turned out, was mostly concerned with whether Harriet had retained her flying ability.She was only satisfied after Harriet had made a  few rounds of the pitch, looping and diving. “No problems there, Potter,” she said. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“A broom catalogue, please,” Harriet said, stacking the broom back into its rack. “My Firebolt... “ she paused, wondering how to put it. She decided to go with her version of events. Dumbledore and McGonagall might not believe her, but that didn’t change the truth. “It got vandalised.”

“Oh no!” Hooch exclaimed. “Have you reported it to Professor Dumbledore?”

“Yeah,” Harriet told her. “He reckons I had a nightmare and did it myself.” Madam Hooch said nothing to this, but the scowl on her usually smiling face left little about her views to the imagination.

“Here,” she said, thrusting a thick, glossy catalogue towards the girl. “Try to get it ordered fast, Potter,” she instructed. “It’s not long until the season starts.”

Harriet and Ron traipsed back to the castle. “Want to come and see my new abode?” he asked.

“Got to be better than sharing with that room of bitches,” Ron groused. Harriet couldn’t argue with that. The mermaid flipped her tail up as she gave the password, and let them through. Harriet wondered if she even could speak. Ron pushed open the door.

“Wicked,” he breathed. That was odd, Harriet thought; the cramped little room shouldn’t have had that reaction.

The windows must have been charmed. There was no way that this out-of-the-way little cubbyhole could possibly have floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Quidditch pitch. Those windows most certainly hadn’t been there earlier. Nor had the room been palatial, with a sitting area around a huge roaring fireplace, and a big table as well as the bed. “It wasn’t like this earlier!” Harriet exclaimed. “It was tiny, and there were no windows, and the fireplace was about the size of a postage stamp!”

“Postage stamp?” Ron asked. He still didn’t have the best grip on all things muggle.

“Erm, it’s a little bit of paper to prove that you’ve paid to post something. Like pre-paid owls.”

“Muggles.” Ron said. “ Anyway, the room thing’s weird,” he told her, sinking down into one of the massive armchairs. “Are you sure?”

Harriet could only look around, wide eyed. She kept spotting new things: the tapestries on the wall, the tea kettle off to the side of the fireplace, her books all neatly lined up on the shelves. “Maybe I really am going mad,” she commented quietly.

The sharp crack of house-elf apparition  made both students jump. “Does Harriet Potter like her rooms?” Dobby asked nervously. “Dobby thought she might not like them when Dobby moved her things.”

“Oh, Dobby, did you do this?” Harriet asked gratefully. “Thank you!”

“Dobby was thinking that the rooms Master Dumbledore had given Miss Harriet were not fitting, so Dobby made some changes,” the house elf explained. “Dobby did so hope that Miss Harriet would like them. Dobby saw what the nasty other girls did to Miss Harriet’s things, and Dobby was angry.”

Harriet couldn’t help the massive grin spreading across her face “Oh, Dobby,” she said, “You’re getting the best, brightest pair of socks I can find for this!”

Dobby squeaked with delight and vanished again with a pop.

“Never mind friends in high places,” Ron said, awestruck. “Seems like all you’ve got to do is make friends with the house elves. Here, look at this new Peregrine Premier. Supposed to be the most maneuverable on the market.”

Harriet perched on the arm of Ron’s chair and perused the catalogue.

 


	7. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter was really hard to write, and I can't quite figure out why. Here's hoping everyone enjoys it!
> 
> Thank you for all the comments! :)

Harriet shouldn’t have been surprised by how well she slept that night. The previous sleep on the Gryffindor sofa had been far from comfortable. It was strange going to breakfast without Ron, though, she decided as she let herself out of her room.

“Morning,” she said, slipping onto the bench next to a sleepy Hermione. “Late night?” she asked when the other girl just gave a yawn in response.

“I’d never thought about the fact that the head girl and boy have to do patrols at night,” she complained. “I was out with Anthony at midnight last night, sending students back to their houses.”

“I’m surprised Goldstein’s head boy,” Harriet said between mouthfuls. “I was sure it’d be Malfoy. Just to torment me.”

“But Professor Dumbledore’s never liked Malfoy,” Hermione pointed out. “Umm, I spoke to Lavender last night…”

“And?”

“And she insists that you had some kind of mad spell. She says she and the other seventh years had to take cover in the sixth year’s dorm because they were scared.”

“So you just believe her?” Harriet hissed. “I thought you were on my side.”

Hermione blanched. “I am, I am,” she insisted. “It’s just… well, Ginny says that they really did spend the night with the sixth years.”

“Pretty odd, don’t you think, that I only destroyed my own belongings, and none of their stuff?” Harriet asked through gritted teeth. She was sure she had a headache brewing already.

“Yes, I do,” Hermione stated flatly. “Which is why I believe you, and not them. Well, that and the obvious fact that you aren’t mad. I just thought you should know what they’re saying about you.”

Ron rushed in, his robes done up wrong, and plonked himself next to Hermione. “I need to train Neville to wake me up in the mornings,” he gasped, heaping his plate as fast as he could.

“Or you could get an alarm clock,” Hermione pointed out.

“Hey, Hermione, I’ve been meaning to ask… where are you living these days? Where are the head girl’s rooms, anyway?” Harriet wanted to know.

“Third floor main corridor,” Hermione supplied. “How on earth did you not know that? They’ve been there decades!”

Harriet shrugged. “Never needed to see the heads,” she explained.

“It’s in _Hogwarts_ …”

“ _A history_!” Ron and Harriet supplied in unison. Hermione huffed.

“Well, if you’re going to be that way,” she admonished. “Anyway, we need to get going.”

“But I haven’t finished my breakfast,” Ron complained morosely, looking back at his plate of bacon and eggs as Hermione towed him away. For all her insistence that they’d be late, they were the first to arrive at Lupin’s classroom.

He smiled broadly to see them. “It’s good to see you again,” he told the trio. “It’s been a long time since your third year.”

“I’m so pleased they brought you back, Professor,” Hermione enthused. “I was so scared that we would have a rubbish teacher again. Professor Snape was good, of course, but when I heard that he was going back to potions…”

Lupin cut her off. “You vote of confidence is appreciated, Hermione,” he told her in his gentle voice. “I hope I can do justice to your expectations.” He gently squeezed Harriet’s shoulder just as a gaggle of Slytherins arrived for the lesson. “Off to your seats, you three,” he instructed, and waved his wand at the blackboard to clear it of the previous class’s notes. Harriet took a seat next to the tank of hinkypunks, watching them flatten themselves against the glass by his head. The last group of students filed in and picked their seats.

“Good morning, everyone,” Lupin said when everyone was seated. “I’m pleased to see so many of you have chosen to take Defence, given the political situation of our time. The chances of you seeing combat in your lifetimes will be high. This class period, Wednesday morning, will usually be given over to theory work, and the Friday afternoon lesson will be practical. Before we start, I’d also like to mention that I intend to run a defence and duelling club in the evenings, and all of you are of course most welcome…”

Lupin spent the rest of the lesson explaining the various types of shield charm, from the basic _protego_ through to spells that, when cast with enough power, could lessen the effects of the cruciatus curse. He called various members of the class up to demonstrate, and Harriet was delighted to find herself called on more than once.

“Okay, class, for the last ten minutes, pair up and practice the _refuto_ shield. Nothing too debilitating on the offensive side, please, a simple stinging hex should do nicely.”

The class stood, and with a wave of Lupin’s wand, all the desks slid to the side of the room. Harriet turned to pair with Ron, but instead found herself face to face with Lavender. A burst of nerves fizzled in her stomach.

To her surprise, though, they traded backwards and forwards with no surprises. Lavender’s shield failed once, leaving a faint red mark on her cheek where Harriet’s spell had hit. Gradually, though, Harriet relaxed, and they cast faster and faster, until, just as Harriet was about to cast her stinging hex, a blast of hot magic hit her in the face.

At first she thought it was just someone else’s hex gone awry, but instead of fading after a second, the heat began to prickle and itch. She lifted a hand to rub her cheek, but found, instead of smooth skin, a rapidly growing beard. Quite aside from the prickle of the rapidly growing hair, Harriet felt the hot pinpricks of tears of shame at the back of her eyes. She looked up at the ceiling, fighting to keep them from falling. “Miss Patil, five points from Gryffindor,” Lupin snapped. “I said a stinging hex.” He pointed his wand at Harriet’s face. “ _Finite incantatum. Ex folliculus_.”

The beard mercifully stopped growing, and the hair fell away, vanishing into nothingness before it hit the ground. The giggles were impossible to stop though, bouncing from student to student.“Class dismissed,” Lupin said. “I’ll see you all on Friday. Harriet, a moment, please?”

The laughter faded away as the class made a scramble for bags and the door until, a few moments later, only Harriet and Ron were left. The latter shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“Go on, Ron,” Lupin encouraged. “I’d like to have a word with Harriet alone, please.” Ron glanced over at Harriet, and she managed a little nod.

“I’ll see you in the common room?” she suggested.

“Yeah,” Ron said gratefully.

Lupin waved Harriet to the seat beside his desk. “I take it that Parvati is one of the girls who was so keen to get you out of the dormitory?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” Harriet confirmed, gratefully sinking into the chair. “Well, it was Lavender, mostly. I think Parvati’s just doing whatever Lavender says.”

Lupin nodded thoughtfully. “People can be very cruel, Harriet. I’d like to make sure that you know that my door is always open to you. I know that your peers are not being as supportive as they could be. I can’t say for certain that Parvati did mean to cast at you, so I can’t punish her more on this occasion. I do believe she did, and if something of that nature happens again, I will deal with it more harshly. Fair?”

Harriet nodded. She was glad to have Lupin at the school again. The unassuming professor had always been kind before, and he was a link to her parents. “Professor,” she asked on a whim, “did you know? About me being a girl, I mean?”

“Not before the last order meeting, no,” Lupin explained. “Your father didn’t know, and your mother certainly never let on. She loved you so very much, Harriet. We always knew that, but it’s become so very clear now that I can see the lengths she went to to protect you.” Lupin smiled warmly at her. “Now, I should imagine that you have some homework to do, and I have a class to prepare for.”

Harriet found Ron in the Gryffindor common rooms playing gobstones with Neville. “Hey,” she said, dropping into a seat.

“Hi, Harry,” Neville said, not looking up as he made a valiant effort to not get squirted in the eye. He failed, and rubbed furiously at his left one.

Harriet sighed. “It’s Harriet now,” she reminded Neville gently.

“Oh, yeah,” Neville said. “Why did you change your name?”

Harriet wasn’t altogether sure how to reply to Neville. “Well,” she said eventually, “Harry’s a pretty funny name for a girl.”

Neville nodded along. Harriet had to wonder how long it would take Neville to catch up with everyone else. She’d noticed that her clueless friend was spending more and more time with Luna, so maybe she’d eventually be able to set him straight. “Hey, guys, shouldn’t we get some homework done?” she asked.

Ron looked at her like she’d sprouted horns. “Is this a girl thing” he asked, “Wanting to do homework all the time? Are you turning into Hermione?”

“No,” Harriet assured him, “I’m just thinking that if we get some done, Hermione might not nag us so much, and we could go to see Hagrid before Transfiguration?”

Ron didn’t look entirely convinced, but he agreed.

As it turned out, Hermione had other ideas when she joined them at lunch. “We need to sort out the wards on your rooms, Harriet,” she told them. “Malfoy was wondering where they were before Ancient Runes.”

“Oh great,” Harriet said sarcastically. “Just what I need, Malfoy trying to destroy all my stuff too.”

“Actually, that’s the strange bit,” Hermione replied. “It didn’t sound like it was for malicious reasons. I don’t know if it was because I was there, or… well. But he just seemed more, well, curious, I suppose.”

“I’m not sure a curious Malfoy is better than a bastard Malfoy,” Ron pointed out. “He’s always been a bastard, so at least you knew where you stood. He must be up to something.”

“You two always think he’s up to something!” Hermione groused. “You were convinced that he was the heir of Slytherin, and look where that got us! Last year, all you did was moan about how Malfoy was acting weirdly, but I didn’t see it.”

“He was acting weirdly!” Harriet insisted. “This is just more weirdness!”

“Didn’t you hear?” Jimmy Peakes said, leaning over. “He’s in disgrace. My mum’s friends with Zabini’s mother, and she said that Draco mucked something up last year, something big, and his dad sent him away to live with his aunt for the summer.

“Bellatrix Lestrange?” Harriet asked, surprised. “That aunt?”

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah. I hear she’s mad as a box of chocolate frogs. Maybe it rubbed off on him.”

The trio looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Whatever it was that caused Malfoy senior to send his son off to his demented sister-in-law had to be something relating to Voldemort. “Come on,” Hermione said. “I’m dying to see your new quarters, Harriet.”

“That’s kind of insulting,” Hermione noted when Harriet gave the mermaid the password. “Is that the one Dumbledore set? Because it kind of implies you’re neither male or female.” Seeing the confused looks on her friends faces, she explained. “Hermaphroditus was the child of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and Hermes, the messenger of the gods, and was considered both male and female at the same time… goodness!”

Hermione had finally looked around her at Harriet’s room. “This is amazing!” she said. “This is nicer than my room, and I’m head girl!” Predictably, she went straight to the bookshelves. “Harriet! I had no idea you had a copy of Morwena LeRoi’s _Potioneer’s Grimoire_! It’s really rare! Not even the library has a copy, though I bet Professor Snape does...”

“Erm, I don’t…” Harriet said. She’d never seen the heavy leather bound volume in Hermione’s hands before.

“And here’s a copy of Alexander Harrison’s treaty on magical inheritance. There are only a few hundred of these in the world!”

Harriet shrugged. “I have no idea where they came from,” she said. “Dobby!” she called, thinking that the house elf might know, seeing as he’d unpacked her things for her.

Dobby appeared in front of the fireplace, beaming. “Yes, Miss Harriet? How may Dobby serve you?”

“Cake, please, Dobby,” Ron said gleefully. Harriet wondered how he could possibly want cake after his lunch and a full helping of jam roly-poly for pudding.

Dobby nodded, his smile not budging a millimetre. “Yes, Mr. Weasley, Sir, right away!”

“Dobby, wait,” Harriet asked. “These books, where did they come from? They weren’t in my trunk?”

“No, Mistress,” Dobby said, his ears flapping back and forth comically as he shook his head, “Professor Snape thought that Miss Harriet might like some of the books from the Potter house in Edinburgh. He was sending Dobby to move some here for Miss Harriet. The Professor said it’s a lovely library, yes he did.”

Hermione turned the _Potioneer’s Grimoire_ over in her hands. “I wonder why Snape wanted these books for you?” she mused. “Maybe he wanted to read them too…” Dobby had vanished, and the three of them jumped when he cracked back in, precariously balancing an entire chocolate cake. Ron’s eyes went wide, and he immediately cut a big slice.

Hermione put down the book with a sigh, clearly itching to lose herself in them for hours on end. “So, Harriet, what do you want to change the password to?” she asked. “And you need to lay some wards to warn you when someone’s about or comes in, I think…”

“You should have the password in parseltongue,” Ron suggested indistinctly, his mouth full of cake. “Then no one else could get in. Well, except you-know-who.”

As good an idea as that seemed, Harriet couldn’t manage to bring out parseltongue when faced with a portrait of a mermaid. It was a shame that it wasn’t a snake, she thought, because it really was a good idea. Ron’s next suggestion was ‘Voldemort’, since not many people were willing to actually say his name.

“How about teaching the portrait to recognise you?” Hermione asked. “If you just did it from appearance, polyjuice would get through it, but you could make it recognise you and your wand… that way, the only way someone could get in would be with polyjuice and stealing your wand.”

“But what if she forgets her wand?” Ron pointed out.

Hermione glared at him. “When has a witch or wizard ever willingly been without their wand?” she asked him witheringly. “Although…” she lapsed into silence for a second, then made a lunge for the bookshelf. She leafed through their defence textbook. “Yes!” she cried after a few minutes. “I knew I remembered reading something about it, because it sounded like what the Gringott’s goblins do. The _Amicum magi_ shield can recognise the magical signatures of your duelling partner. I bet I could adapt it so that you had to cast a spell to get in, so that the portrait would only recognise your magic!” Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and she pulled some parchment and a self-inking quill from her bag. She subsided into silence, the only sound the frantic scratching against the parchment. Words and runes and little diagrams marched across the page.

Harriet joined Ron by the fireplace and helped herself to a big piece of cake. Half an hour later, Hermione finally reappeared, a smudge of ink on her cheek where she’d brushed a curl away. “Okay, I think I’ve got it,” she said. “It should mean that Harriet just has to cast _alohomora_ , and the portrait’ll open. Want to try?”

It took Hermione almost ten minutes to lay the wards, sketching symbols in the air with her wand, and walking backwards and forwards on both the inside and outside of the portrait door, but eventually, she gestured to Harriet to cast the spell. Nothing happened. “Again,” she prompted. “The wards should have recognised that, so this time should make the portrait open.”

Harriet pointed her wand at the mermaid. “ _Alohomora_ ,” she said. Hermione squeaked with joy when the portrait slid back.

“Now you try, Ron,” she said when the mermaid was back in place. Ron’s spell did nothing. “Excellent!” she declared. “And just in time for Transfiguration!”

Ron groaned.

They were to start transfiguring themselves into inanimate objects this year, a feat which proved much harder than transfiguration into living creatures. It was all in the keeping still, McGonagall explained. After seeing a strangely twitching hat stand from Hermione’s first successful attempt, Harriet could see why.

McGonagall called her back at the end of the lesson. Harriet was beginning to wonder if she’d ever be able to just leave a classroom with the rest of the class. “Potter,” McGonagall began. “The Headmaster and I both think that you might need more practice with shielding your mind. Professor Snape has kindly agreed to give you private tuition once more. He expects you on Monday and Thursday evenings, at half past seven. And Potter… please don’t give me reason to regret persuading him to help. I’ll be most displeased if I hear that you’ve been rude to him. You simply must put your silly ideas of disliking him aside.”

“I’ll try, Professor,” Harriet promised. She also really hoped that she was better at occlumency now than in fifth year. She really would rather not let Snape know that she’d dreamed about his son the night before.


	8. Robin

Harriet nervously knocked on Snape’s classroom door at seven thirty the next evening. “Enter,” Snape called. “Ah, Potter. Let’s see if you can manage to control yourself this year.”

Harriet gulped. It would seem that they were back to mean Professor Snape. “I think,” he continued, “that this may be more comfortable in my sitting room.” He ushered her through his storeroom, tapping three potions ingredients with his wand. A whole section of shelving moved back and slid to the side. Snape gestured Harriet through to the darkened room beyond.

A wave of Snape’s wand, and the candles in the sconces around the wall flared to life. “There. We’ll be undisturbed in here, Harriet,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.” Another flick of his wand and the buttons down the front of his teaching robes parted, and he hung them on a stand by the door. Beneath them, he wore perfectly normal trousers and a white shirt, open at the neck. Harriet perched on the end of the sofa, and to her surprise, a sleek black cat prowled up to her. It meowed, and jumped up next to her, arching its back, its claws fully extended. Thus stretched, it settled down and began to lick itself.

“Well, it would seem that Sheba likes you,” Severus commented mildly. “Tea?” He set a kettle over the fire to heat.

“Oh, erm, yes, please,” Harriet said hesitantly. Her head was reeling, unable to keep up with the rapid changes between scary Professor Snape and kind Severus. He settled himself in a deep wingback chair, upholstered in dark forest green. The whole room was in forest colours, Harriet noticed. Not the jewel tones of Slytherin green, but a darker, more soothing shade, with browns and occasional blues thrown in. Severus  rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers, his obsidian eyes fixed on her.

“I had been wondering how to ensure that I would be able to speak to you privately,” he said silkily. “When Minerva approached me about further occlumency lessons, it seemed the perfect opportunity.”

“Sir… Severus?” Harriet asked in confusion. Why did he want to speak to her alone?

“I think it’s important that you have adults to look out for you, Harriet, and who you can come to for help.” He held up a hand to silence her before she could speak. “I know, you are an adult  by law. And you feel that you have support. But, through the years, you’ve been notoriously distrustful of the people who should have helped you, often with good reason. In addition, I no longer remain convinced that the Headmaster has your best interests at heart. He has always allowed, even encouraged you to enter dangerous situations, and I fear that he now views you as expendable, given that the prophecy can no longer refer to you. He is speaking of attempting to train up Longbottom. I can only give him wishes for good luck; I cannot see that Longbottom will ever be able to outwit the Dark Lord.”

The kettle whistled, and Severus knelt by the hearth, spooning tea leaves into a pot and filling it. “I’ll just be a moment, Harriet,” he promised as he stood and left the room. She could hear him opening a cupboard and rustling about.

The fire flashed green, and someone tumbled out, upsetting the teapot. Harriet gave a little scream, before realising that it was only Robin.

“Harriet?” Severus asked, rushing back into the room. “Oh, Robin, it’s you…” he trailed off, seeing, like Harriet, that Robin was pale and shaking, clutching his arm to his chest. He guided Robin to the sofa and sat him next to Harriet. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“My wrist… I think it’s broken,” Robin said. “And I jostled it, coming through the floo. I think I made it worse.”

“Let me see,” Severus said gently, prising his son’s arm away from his chest. Harriet blanched: not only was it clearly broken, hanging at a strange angle, but the skin had split as well, revealing the bone. Severus pulled the hand straight again, prompting a whimper from Robin. “Ferula,” he murmured, tapping with his wand. Bandages raced out of the tip, binding the joint tightly. “Stay there,” Severus told him firmly. “I’ll go and get some potions for you. Harriet, could you remake the tea?”

Harriet nodded, and set about rescuing the teapot. A long crack ran down the side. A reparo fixed that easily, and it was quick work to summon water to refill the kettle.

“It’s so effortless for you,” Robin said quietly. Harriet looked up from her new seat on the floor. His face was still drawn, and he was cradling his tightly-bound hand again. He seemed to favour his father’s favourite color, dressed in black boots and jeans, and a black t-shirt with the words ‘Iron Maiden’ blazoned across the front in a pointy, angular font.

Harriet shrugged. “I’ve been doing it since I was eleven,” she pointed out. She used her wand to siphon up the spilt tea. Robin’s eyes followed the movement.

Severus returned with two potions vials. Robin downed them quickly, with barely a wince. Harriet watched wide-eyed. The milky coloured one steamed when Severus uncorked it, just like skele-gro, but Harriet was sure that skele-gro was blue. It could only be described as disgusting in her experience. Robin smiled weakly at her. “I’ve been swallowing dad’s vile concoctions since I was a kid,” he rasped, the potion clearly having been caustic enough to give him a sore throat. “I’ve had lots of practice.” Severus sniffed with disapproval.

“What were you doing, Robin?” he snapped.

“Jumped over a wall,” Robin supplied. “I know, I know, it was stupid. Carrie wanted to take me to A and E, but I told her it was just a sprain.” Harriet wondered who Carrie was. Probably his girlfriend, she mused. She tried to force down the sudden surge of dislike for a girl she’d never met; there was no reason for her to care who Robin was with. Of course he probably had a girlfriend.

“It’s a bad break,” Severus lectured. “You’ll have to keep it strapped up; it’s too complex for an accurate spell fix. The skele-knit should heal it up properly in a day or two.”

“Yeah, thanks, Dad,” Robin said, leaning back against the sofa. The pain potion was kicking in, numbing his arm, and he looked less like he was about to throw up.

Severus watched him with a critical eye, his arms folded across his chest. “Have you eaten tonight?” he asked. Robin shook his head, and his father called for a house elf to bring some food.

Just then a sharp bell began ringing, somewhere in Severus’ quarters. “Merlin’s beard,” Severus cursed, “they had to need me tonight, of all nights?”

“What is it?” Harriet asked. Was he being summoned by Voldemort?

“There’s something going on in Slytherin,” Severus explained quickly. “I don’t know how long I’ll be; Harriet, can you stay and watch him, please? If anything happens, floo call for Poppy; she knows him.”

Harriet had barely agreed before he was gone, pulling on his teaching robes as he went. The kettle boiled again, and Harriet made the tea. The house elf popped back in, setting a plate of food on the coffee table in front of Robin. “Thanks, Maltie,” he told the elf, who twisted the hem of his immaculate pillowcase with joy.

“Anything for you, Master Robin,” he squeaked, and popped away again.

“Well, the house elves like you,” Harriet commented. She suddenly felt nervous, left alone with the tall boy.

Robin picked up the fork in his good hand. “Maltie looked after me when I was a kid,” he explained. “I spent my summers here, running riot in the castle, and I lived here for almost a year.”

“You lived here?” Harriet asked, confused. “How did no one know?”

“I stayed in these rooms,” Robin explained. “It was three years ago, when my mum died. Dad said I was too young to live on my own, so I stayed here and flooed home to school every day. It was that or boarding school, and I knew my dad couldn’t really afford the boarding fees.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, pouring the tea. It was odd to think that Robin had lived in the castle, and no one had been the wiser. She could have seen him on the Marauder's’ map, she realised, but then, that had been the year of the Triwizard tournament. She’d had other things on her mind. “I didn’t know your mother had died.”

Robin thanked Harriet as she put the tea down next to his plate. “Stroke,” he explained shortly. “She was young for it. Dad’s a bit touchy about it: he reckons he could have saved her, if he was there.” He rubbed his head absentmindedly. “Why is it,” he asked, “that the damned skele-knit always end up giving me a headache?”

“I had skele-gro once,” Harriet said sympathetically, “I had all the bones in my arm vanished, in my second year.”

Robin grinned. “Dad told me about that one… it was an idiot teacher doing the vanishing, I seem to recall? Wait…” He frowned, thinking. “It can’t have been you. That was a boy.”

“Erm… well, it was me,” Harriet said, flushing red. “I… I used to be a boy.”

“Oh.” Robin replied, picking up his fork again. “That’s cool. I’ve got a friend who’s transgendered, only he was born a girl. You pass really well.”

“I’m not sure I understand…” Harriet said, trailing off. “What do you mean, pass?”

Robin waved his fork about, saying, “you know, you really look like you were born a girl. I guess you can use spells for stuff like breasts, yeah?”

“But I was born a girl…” Harriet said, confused. “My mother disguised me as a boy, then when I was seventeen, the spells wore off…”

Robin’s eyebrows vanished up under his dark hair. “Okay,” he said eventually, “that’s… unusual.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “The kid with the vanished bones… that was Harry Potter… oh, Harriet! I get it.” He chuckled quietly to himself. Harriet just stared, deciding that he was very odd.

“Sorry,” Robin said. “Painkiller potions make me a little loopy. So, you’re the infamous Harry Potter. From what I hear, you’re possibly more accident prone than I am.”

“Erm, well, I’ve had a few stays in the hospital wing,” Harriet admitted. “So,” she said, wanting to change the subject, “what do you do? Your dad said you were at university?”

“Yup,” Robin said, putting down his fork and sitting back. “Just started my second year. I’m doing Classics and Philosophy. Probably not the best thing to lead to a job, but whatever. I enjoy it.”

The door at the far end of the room slammed, and Severus strode back in. “Imbecilic third year flooded the common room,” he explained shortly. He laid one long fingered hand on Robin’s forehead.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Robin sighed.

Severus just made a ‘harumphing’ noise. “I’m sorry, Harriet, but I don’t think we’ll be having any lessons tonight. I’ll see you on Monday, and in the meantime, I’ll have your hearth connected to this one by floo, in case you need anything.” He took a pot of floo powder from the pocket of his robes and handed it to Harriet.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you Monday. Bye, Robin.”

“See ya, Harriet,” he responded with a smile. “Stay in one piece- no copying me.”

Harriet shook her head. She decided that Robin Snape was clearly quite mad.

The castle was quiet, most of the students holed up in their common rooms or the library. Ravenclaw were holding their tryouts on the quidditch pitch, she noticed from her bedroom windows. Gryffindor had the pitch booked on Tuesday evenings and Sunday mornings, so she had a few days before tryouts. She hoped that she wouldn’t have any trouble from the team, especially Ginny. It would be awkward if one of her chasers wouldn’t stick around to hear a word she said. Ginny was a good player, and Harriet would hate to lose her from the team.

Although she was nervous about facing her house again, she climbed the stairs to the Gryffindor common room. Ron was almost undoubtedly there, and as long as she wasn’t busy with head girl duties, Hermione would be too.

The babble of the Gryffindors hit her as soon as the portrait swung open, and she couldn’t help but smile. Ron and Hermione were over at their usual cluster of chairs, Hermione surrounded by books, and Ron sucking on the end of his quill and staring into space. “Hi,” Harriet said, flopping into her usual chair. Ron jumped, clearly having been a million miles away.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t think Snape’d let you go this early.”

“He was called away. I guess some Slytherins did something idiotic,” Harriet said shortly, not wanting to explain the meeting with Robin. Not here, in the busy common room, anyway. She pulled out her Transfiguration textbook to do the required reading for their next class.

“I was in the library earlier today,” Hermione commented, apparently to no one in particular.

“Big surprise there,” Ron said, rolling his eyes.

Hermione continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I was looking up the rules of inheritance in pureblood families. At first, it all looks really good, really fair. The firstborn child inherits, no matter their sex.”

“And?” Ron asked, exasperated.

“Shut up, Ronald,” she snapped. “Anyway, that looks good. I expected male children to be preferred, given what happened with you, Harriet, but it turns out that for a family to continue, the firstborn basically has to be male. By pureblood customs, a married woman can’t hold assets on her own. That’s why they kill firstborn girls; because they inherit everything, and then it all goes to their husbands. It leaves the rest of the family line penniless. It’s supposed to be illegal in the wizarding world to find out the sex of a child before birth, but according to Madam Pince, most do find out about halfway through the pregnancy. Apparently it’s not unusual for a pureblooded witch to have a miscarriage or two before she has a son.” She sounded a bit like she did when she’d championed the house elves, Harriet thought. She expected badges campaigning for equal rights for witches any day now.

Ron was frowning. “Mum said that she had a miscarriage once,” he mused.

Harriet shook her head. “But didn’t she have Bill not long after she married your dad?,” she asked. “Surely she can’t have…”

“I doubt it,” Hermione reassured Ron. “After all, no offence, but it’s not like your family has any great stock of wealth to lose.”

“True,” Ron agreed with a shrug. “Hermione, I don’t get this thing about everlasting charms. The book makes it sound like you lose your magic…”

“Of course not, Ronald!” Hermione said, exasperated. “Don’t you remember any of your theory of magic lessons?” She bent her head close of Ron’s pointing out where he’d gone wrong. Harriet’s heart gave a disconcerting jolt when she saw them close like that. It wasn’t that she fancied Ron; and they weren’t even a couple, but they just looked so… comfortable.

“I’m going to bed, guys,” she said. “I’m really tired. I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

“See you,” Ron said, and Hermione just offered a smile before pulling Ron’s attention back.

Her room was quiet after being in the tower. She sort of missed the bustle, she decided. Apparently, she wasn’t the most interesting gossip anymore, since no one had bothered her for the hour she was there, but she didn’t recall seeing any of the seventh year girls other than Hermione. It was no great surprise, since the library was always crammed with students in their final year.

There was a note lying on the hearth rug.

_Harriet,_

_Your fireplace is now connected to the one in my living room.  You may use the connection to attend your occlumency lessons, or in a time of need. Do at least attempt not to break any bones when you come through._

_Severus_

It would seem that Severus worked fast. She hoped Robin was okay, and shook her head, feeling quite silly. She shouldn’t care about a random boy that she’d only met a few times. He lived in a different world, she reminded herself. He’d never be part of the magical world, not really.

She got ready for bed, but only after climbing into the big four poster did she realise that she wasn’t actually that tired. She heaved her transfiguration book into her lap instead, reading until her eyes grew heavy.

 

 


	9. Flying

Harriet looked around at the showing for the quidditch tryouts. There were decidedly fewer hopefuls than last year, with the giggling girls notable only by their absence. Harriet supposed they really had only been interested in the famous Harry Potter, and not the game. There was Ron, of course, and Ginny, though she was carefully looking at the ground instead of Harriet. Dean Thomas was back, as was Jimmy Peakes. Two second years he thought were too small to actually be able to weigh the broom down looked nervous enough to be sick.

Given the lesser number of players, the tryouts only took two hours. Harriet was really pleased with her newest beater, a surprisingly strong fifth year called Anna Holmes. Female beaters were unusual, given the sheer power required to bat bludgers across the field, but she clearly worked well with Jimmy. Ron was more confident this year, and out-caught the other keeper candidates by a long shot. Dean and Ginny retook their chaser spots, along with fourth-year Linda James. Ginny still wouldn’t look at her, but seemed content to take instructions, and flew just as well as ever. It was a good team; Harriet hoped she could go out on a high note with his name on the quidditch captain’s trophy.

A trip to the library, though, wasn’t Harriet’s idea of a good way to spend the rest of the morning. Despite Hermione’s best efforts, Harriet just couldn’t seem to settle to work. She’d finished the homework assignments set over the week, which, at this point in the year were either reading or recaps of previous knowledge, and she had no patience for reading ahead. She wanted to go for a fly, but her Peregrine was still on order, and flying on a school broom was what she imagined trying to ride a particularly recalcitrant horse was like. Not that she’d ever been on a horse, though there were pictures of Dudley sat atop one from a holiday to the seaside. Harriet had always sympathised with the look in the poor animal’s eyes: she knew what it was like to be sat on by Dudley.  

Her dread of the school brooms aside, she found her steps tending back towards the Quidditch pitch. She thought that Slytherin had the pitch this afternoon, but they wouldn’t be there until after lunch. She slipped into the dim half-light of the broom shed, breathing in the smell of dust and beeswax polish and the unique, woody scent of broomstick twigs. She eyed the racks of brooms, hunting for the least wonky. There was an ancient Comet 180 on the top rack at the back that looked hopeful. Harriet rubbed the dust off with the hem of her t-shirt. Its twigs were mostly still in shape, even after so long. It would do, she decided.

A shadow fell across the entrance of the broom shed, and Harriet came face to face with none other than Malfoy.

“Potter,” the blond said, his tone mild. He picked up a cleaning cloth from the pile on the shelf by the door. “I thought you were finished with team tryouts. Sorry.”

Harriet blinked at him in surprise. Malfoy, saying sorry? What was the world coming to? “ Erm, yeah, we are,” she stuttered. “Just, erm, wanted a fly.”

“I heard what happened to your broom,” Malfoy said conversationally, leaning against the door frame. “Damned shame, that. Destroying someone’s broom, that’s just not on. Anyone would think that those girls want Gryffindor to lose the cup, with sabotage and all.”

Harriet frowned. “Hang on,” she said. “You don’t think I did it?”

Malfoy shrugged and left the shed. Harriet jogged to keep up, clutching the Comet. “As good a player as you are?” Malfoy drawled. “Players with some future, some talent, players like you and me, Harriet Potter, we don’t hurt our brooms. Not in nightmares, not ever. They’re an extension of us.”

Harriet was quite sure that she was staring google-eyed at Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, talking to her for more than a sentence without throwing an insult in? Malfoy, saying that she was a good player, and that he didn’t think she was mad? It had to be some kind of alternate universe. “Yeah, well, I’ll go for that fly about,” Harriet stammered.

Draco smiled at her, actually smiled. “It’s good to be back where you can fly free after the summer, isn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. “And I hope you get a new broom soon. It’s hard to be without one.” He finished wiping down his own spotless broom, and kicked off from the ground, shooting into the air and flying laps around the pitch. Harriet threw her leg over the handle of the Comet and headed off in the other direction, to loop over the lake and the outskirts of the forbidden forest. If did feel good to have the wind whipping through her hair again, able to fly without worrying about going beyond the protections of the field behind the Burrow. She even managed to forget about Malfoy’s odd behaviour as she swooped and turned, the lake glistening beneath her. Who cared what Malfoy thought, she decided. Malfoy, or Lavender Brown or McGonagall. None of it mattered up here

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen when she returned the broom to its place and trooped up to the castle for her lunch. Hermione groaned when Harriet slid onto the bench and reached for the serving spoons; she was starving.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,” Hermione informed her.

Ron looked up. “Not nearly scratched enough to have gone through a hedge, backwards or forwards,” he declared.

“It’s an expression, Ron,” Hermione sighed. “Honestly, Harriet, I know you own a hairbrush. Use it!”

Even Hermione agreed that they’d done enough work for the week, and supported Harriet’s idea of going to see Hagrid. Harriet felt a little guilty that it had taken her this long to go and visit the half giant. He’d been her first real friend, and this was the last year she’d be living in such proximity to him.

Hagrid must have seen them walking down the hill, because he threw open his front door as they opened the gate to his cottage. “Yer a witch, Harriet!” he called delightedly. “Come in, come in, all of yer, and I’ll get some tea on.” He waved them all to the table, and pottered about, putting the kettle on and plonking a plate of scones in front of them.

“Nah then, how’re you finding yer last year at Hogwarts?” he asked. “Aside from you bein’ a witch now an all, Harriet. Mind, I were that shocked when Dumbledore told me. All them years, and none of us knew a thing!” He chuckled to himself, and poured the tea. Harriet sneakily fed her scone to Fang, who’d laid his slobbering head in her lap. “Even me, ‘an I knew you as a baby!”

“There’s lots of homework,” Ron said morosely, interrupting Hagrid’s sojourn into his memories. “We’ve had it for every class so far, and it’s only the first week.”

“Well, now, you’ll all be needin’ to know what yer doin’ when it comes time to defeat You Know Who,” Hagrid supplied. “You three are gonna be tha’ important: after all, it’s Harriet here who’s got to do the job.”

Harriet looked down at her lap, suddenly aware of all the eyes on her. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten that the prophecy specifically mentioned a male child. She probably would have, if not for Snape. “I think Dumbledore’s doing most of the work,” she muttered. “I haven’t even seen him since… well, since I left the girls dorm.”

Hermione nodded sagely. “He hasn’t been at the teachers’ table much this week,” she noted. “Do you know where he’s been, Hagrid?”

The half giant suddenly became very interested in filling up their teacups again. “Oh, you know, bit ‘o this, bit ‘’ that, I suspect,” he informed them. “Gathering up some bits an’ pieces, like.”

“The horcruxes?” Harriet asked. “Did he say whether he’d found more horcruxes?”

Hagrid looked away uncomfortably. “I dunno,” he said. “You’d best ask Dumbledore.” He coughed loudly. “Come an’ see the puffskeins I got in for th’ third years,” he said, suddenly cheerful. “Cuddlin’ a puffskein’s enough to cheer anyone up!” Harriet certainly wasn’t convinced by Hagrid’s sudden change of subject, but didn’t object to snuggling the funny little caramel coloured puffball, which shook with delight in her hands. I wasn’t a bad way to spend a sunday afternoon, all in all.

“Fancy a game of chess?” Harriet asked Ron as they walked back up the castle.

“Ah, mate, we’ve got that prefect’s meeting,” Ron said. “All the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff prefects, to organise patrols and who’s going to be in charge of Hogsmeade weekends and stuff. Later, after dinner maybe?” he offered.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harriet said, watching her two friends head off to their meeting. She supposed that she was glad not to have the responsibilities of a prefect, but it still stung, Ron being chosen over her.

She mounted the stairs to Dumbledore’s office. The conversation at Hagrid’s had reminded her how little Dumbledore had said about the horcruxes since the end of last term, and she had to admit that she felt left out. Perhaps it was just Ron and Hermione going off without her, but Dumbledore was still treating her as a child. “Liquorice allsorts,” she told the gargoyle, but it remained resolutely still. The password had changed. It wasn’t liquorice whip, either, or lemon sherberts or sugar mice. She even tried ‘mars bar’, to no avail. She gave the gargoyle a kick in frustration, but only succeeded in hurting her foot. With nothing else to do, it seemed wisest to invest some energy in the schoolwork she’d failed to do that morning.

The library was unusually quiet. Madam Pince glanced up as she came in. “You’ve got an hour before I shut, Potter,” she informed her.

She’d only been settled for five minutes when someone pulled out the chair beside her. “Evening, Harriet,” Malfoy said, getting out a half written essay and a quill. He bent his head over the table, his silky hair catching the light from the magic globes that lit the library. Harriet looked around, puzzled. There were plenty of other places to sit. What on earth was Malfoy up to?

“Have you done that Transfiguration reading yet?” Malfoy asked quietly, so as not to bring down the wrath of Madam Pince. “I don’t think I really get the bit about the…”

Harriet cut across him. “Why are you being nice, Malfoy?” she asked.

“I’ve grown up,” Malfoy said, meeting her eyes. “I know we’ve had our disagreements, over the years, but I’ve come to realise that you’re not someone to get on the wrong side of, Harriet Potter.”

“How do I know you’re not spying on me?” Harriet asked.

Malfoy raised one shoulder. “You don’t,” he said simply. “Look, Potter… I spent the summer at the beck and call of my mad aunt. I don’t want to end up like her. Believe me if you want, or not, but I’m a changed man.”

Harriet narrowed her eyes. “I can’t forget all the shit you’ve pulled, Malfoy,” she whispered. “You, and your father. I wouldn’t even know where to begin the list of all the insults. ”

“Let me make it up to you,” Malfoy offered. “I’ll be good as gold from now on, you have my word. And you won’t be bothered by any other Slytherins, I’ll see to it. You’ve got enough shit going on with your own house for us to be stirring it up.”

“Erm, okay,” she said. “That would be nice, I suppose.”

Malfoy grinned at her. “Consider it done,” he said, and bent back over his essay until it was time to go to the great hall. He insisted on walking Harriet down, only parting ways at the entrance to go to their separate tables.

“So,” she began as soon as Ron and Hermione joined her, “What on earth is going on today? Malfoy’s trying to make out that he’s turned over a new leaf.”

“He hasn’t been up to his old tricks, lately,” Hermione noted. “I haven’t seen him go after anyone at all since the start of term. He’s even leaving the younger kids alone. Maybe being around Bellatrix really has convinced him that he’s better off out of that life.”

“Yeah, but it’s Malfoy…” Ron pointed out.

Hermione glanced around, noting the interested look on the faces of the sixth years just down the table from them. “Hey, Harriet, can we come to your room tonight?” she asked loudly. “I really just need a quiet place to get some work done.”

“‘Course,” Harriet replied, catching on.

Ron raced up to Gryffindor tower to fetch his chess set after dinner, leaving Harriet and Hermione to settle in her room. “I haven’t been to your room yet,” Harriet pointed out.

“It’s nothing all that special, actually,” Hermione said. “Plus, Goldstein’s always there, with Hannah Abbott, snogging in the corner. I’m not sure why he uses our sitting room instead of his bedroom, or why he’s even with her. She’s an ugly cow anyway.”

Harriet winced. It was unusual to hear Hermione saying such things about anyone. Hermione had never been one to criticise based on appearance; it wouldn’t have surprised Harriet so much if she’d said that Hannah was unintelligent. “Can you hear that?” she asked, suddenly aware of a faint banging from the direction of the portrait hole.

Both witches drew their wands. “If it’s Malfoy…” Harriet muttered, “I’ll be tempted to hex his balls off.” She prodded the portrait open.

“You really need a doorbell or something!” Ron said, red faced, his arm raised to bang again.

Harriet and Hermione laughed. “We thought you were Malfoy!” Hermione giggled.

Ron went even more red in the face. “Do I look like Malfoy?” he demanded, climbing through the portrait hole. “You knew I was coming down when I had the chess set, anyway!”

“Well, he was asking where Harriet’s room was!” Hermione pointed out.

“So, maybe he fancies her,” Ron said, setting up his chess men.

Hermione scrunched up her face. “Eeew, slimy Malfoy,” she squealed.

“Yeah!” Harriet agreed.

“You’re blushing!” Hermione accused.

“Yeah, because you’re busy pairing me up with the platinum prat!” Harriet insisted. “Okay, Ron, ready to thrash me at chess?”

It wasn’t that she fancied Malfoy, Harriet rationalised as she got into bed. He was, well, Malfoy, after all. But she wasn’t used to men finding her attractive. That must be it, she told herself. The giggling girls had never appealed, so she’d found them more an annoyance than a reason to be flattered. But a man being nice, saying she was pretty? It was bound to have an effect, she decided. She just had to forget about Draco Malfoy, forget about Robin Snape, and get on with her life.

Her dreams didn’t agree with her decision. Draco’s hands slipped over her breasts, down her waist. He slowly began to unbutton her robes, his breath hot on the side of her neck. He nipped at her ear. She was naked beneath her robes, she realised, and the silky skin of his fingers trailed down between her breasts, circled her exposed belly button. She was gasping, pressing towards his teasing light touches. “All in good time, my dear,” dream Draco murmured into her ear. “You’ll have what you need, what you want, I promise…”

And then Draco was Robin, his hands bigger as he cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her tender, puckered nipples. “Are you ready for me?” dream Robin leaned his dark head down to ask her. His hair brushed her collar bones, then his head went down, further...

She woke with a gasp, tangled in sweaty sheets, the morning sun already slanting into the room.

  


 

 

 


	10. Snape's summoning

Harriet was five minutes late for her standing appointment with Severus for her Occlumency lesson. Over the last three weeks, he’d praised her progress as she consistently resisted his legilimency attacks. She’d almost blown up her cauldron when he’d surprised her with a silent attack during a lesson, and the twenty points he’d taken still stung a little, as did the memory of the veritable tongue lashing.

She sped into her room, dropping her bag and seizing a pinch of floo from the pot hidden on her mantlepiece. “Severus Snape’s living room,” she cried out.

She was apologising almost as soon as she whirled into the fireplace, stumbling out onto the hearth. Severus might be much nicer to her now, but he still didn’t tolerate tardiness well.

“It’s okay,” Robin said moodily. “He’s not here.” He had his knees drawn up to his chest, his sock-clad feet on the cushions in front of him.

“Oh… erm, where is he?” Harriet asked. Was she supposed to have met him in his classroom again, like last week, where they’d practiced Occlumency in less comfortable surroundings?

“He was summoned, a couple of hours ago,” Robin informed her. His eyes never left the fire. “I doubt he’ll be in any shape for lessons when he comes back, so you can go, if you want.”

“What kind of shape will he be in?” Harriet asked, still standing uncomfortably in the middle of the rug. She shifted from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. Robin’s black eyes flicked up to her. He looked… almost angry. He stared into the flames again.

“As good as can be expected after going three rounds with a magical megalomaniac, I suppose. I’ll probably pour some potions into him and stick him in his bed. He should be okay for lessons tomorrow. He usually is.”

Robin shouldn’t be left alone like this, she decided, staring into the fire and worrying. She perched on the opposite end of the sofa to Robin. “Do you always wait for him, when he’s summoned?” she asked.

He shook his head absentmindedly. “He doesn’t exactly let me know when he goes,” he told her. “I just happened to be here, today. He’s been gone two hours already. It’s never good if he’s gone a long time. At least if I’m here, I can patch him up, or call for Poppy if he’s really bad.”

“I’ll stay too,” she said. “We can keep each other company, and if he’s hurt, I can help.”

Robin shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m sure you have friends to see, or magic to do, or something.”

“I can’t leave you like this,” Harriet insisted. “You’ve been sitting here staring at a fireplace for two hours. You’ll go mad!”

Robin threw a cushion across the room and buried his face in his hands. “Why does he have to go and be such a bloody hero,” he growled, his voice muffled. “Why can’t he be like anybody else’s dad, just living a normal life?”

“I’m sorry,” Harriet said quietly.

He sighed deeply. “It’s not your fault.”

“It kind of is,” she pointed out. She knelt on the floor to fill the kettle and set it to heat. Robin looked like he could do with a cup of something hot. “It was because of me that Voldemort came back in the first place. It was my blood that made his body.”

Robin shook his head. “I may not be magical,” he said, “but I know my magical history and theory. And I know all about the madman my idiot father had the terrible idea to pair himself with. You were a child, you had no hope against him.”

Harriet looked down at the rug beneath her knees. She could feel tears prickling at the backs of her eyes. She’d had no idea, not really, that she felt this strongly about Severus, that she cared this much. “How bad will it be?” she asked, shakily.

He finally looked at her, looked properly. “Usually cruciatus. Sometimes something more physical.” He paused. “I was here, you know, that night when he came back. The Dark Lord. I was living here, and I was here when everyone found out that he was back, the dark Lord was back. I’ve never seen Dad like that, so shaken, so desolate. You’re caught up in all of this, but it’s not all about you. It’s much bigger than you.”

She shook her head. He didn’t understand. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, a tear finally escaping. “If I hadn’t survived, if I’d never been born…”

Robin slid onto the ground beside her. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said, putting a warm arm around her shoulders. “Megalomaniacs have existed all over the world; this is just another one. You were a child caught up in it all.”

Harriet turned her face into the soft cotton of his t shirt. “You don’t hate me?” she asked quietly.

He pulled back from her so he could look at her. “Why would I hate you?” he said gently. He brushed away a tear caught on her cheek. “This started before you were even born, and my dad made his choices then. He has to live with them now, no matter how much I wish he didn’t.” Green eyes met obsidian, and they just stared at each other for a few moments, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and his deep with thought. “Have you ever been kissed, Harriet?” Robin finally asked, his voice rough. “May I kiss you?”

Harriet tried to force her muggy brain to answer. She’d kissed Cho, and Ginny, but had she really ever been kissed, or just kissed someone else? She never got to respond before he lowered his lips down, brushing them over hers, so gently as to be hardly there. She let out a startled gasp. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, drawing back and looking away. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Can we do that again, please?” Harriet said, interrupting him.

A little smile played on his lips… his lips that he wasn’t currently using to kiss her, much to her annoyance. She reached up and tangled her hand in his hair, tugging down until they were on hers. He wrapped a hand around the back of her head, cupping her skull as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing gently over her lips, inviting her to part them and let him in. She obliged.

The kettle whistled, and they sprung apart, Harriet giving a nervous giggle. Robin took over the tea-making, leaving her a private moment to touch her lips in something like wonderment. Cho had been highly uncomfortable and the only real kiss she’d ever shared with Ginny had been in the heat of the moment, emotion and passion spilling over. She regretted that kiss now, for leading Ginny on. But that kiss had felt nothing like this one, her head cradled in Robin’s hand, his lips so insistent on hers.

He stood wordlessly, but bent again to carefully place a kiss on her forehead. It was covered by hair, but he’d unwittingly kissed her just over her scar. She gave a shudder, more from pleasure at the kiss than the odd feeling that always came when anyone touched her scar. He was only gone for a minute or two, long enough to fetch a plate of biscuits from the other room. Harriet guessed that there must be a kitchen somewhere; but she’d never seen any part of Severus’ quarters besides this room. It was also long enough to give Harriet a few more minutes to let it sink in. Her stomach was in knots, and it felt like her heart was in her throat. She’d actually just kissed Robin… more than that, she’d asked him to kiss her!

He put the biscuits on the table, and folded himself to the floor again, facing her, but carefully not touching her. “Were you… are you okay with this?” he asked quietly.

“I..I think so,” she replied.

“I know we don’t know each other very well,” he said. “I don’t want to scare you, or, or force you into doing something you’re not comfortable with. I didn’t mean to make a move on you so soon… you know, with you still being at school and that.” He twisted his fingers together, a nervous habit.

“I wanted to,” she insisted quietly. “I’m not some stupid kid. I know what I’m doing.”

“Harriet,” he asked quietly, “What is this to you? Are you just… playing the field? Or could this be… that is… are you interested in me? In making some kind of relationship with me?”

How could anyone resist the look him Robin’s dark eyes at that moment, Harriet wondered? He looked genuinely scared. Could it be possible that he really did want her, really felt the same way about her as she did about him, even though she’d been desperately trying to bury those emotions? “I know what people call girls who sleep around,” she said firmly. “I’m not a slut.”

“I never said you were!” he exclaimed. “A kiss most certainly doesn’t make you a slut, Harriet. Just… if you’re not interested, can you tell me now? Because I’d rather not be led on.”

She leaned forward, kneeling up to close the distance between them. She kissed him again, just lightly, not much more than a peck. “I’m interested,” she said. “But I’m scared too… I’ve not really been here before, done this. I’ve only been a girl for a few months.”

He brushed her hair back behind her ear. “I know. We can go slow, I promise. Nothing until you’re absolutely ready for it. I can wait. For tonight, we just cuddle and wait for my dad to get back, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

Robin moved the cushions from the sofa onto the floor, making a nest for Harriet and himself. She transfigured a spare cushion into a blanket, and together, they curled up.

“Do you miss your family?” Robin asked. Harriet was tucked against his side, her head against his chest and her heart still feeling fit to burst.

“I don’t remember my parents,” Harriet admitted, “but yeah, I guess. I wish they’d lived.”

“I meant your other family,” he said. “Didn’t you live with muggle relatives?”

Harriet snorted. “Miss them? I hope I never have to see them again. I spent my childhood locked in the cupboard under the stairs and my teenage years locked in a bedroom with bars on the window. I was called a freak and a burden every day I spent in that house.”

“Seriously?”

“Deadly,” Harriet replied. “They hated everything to do with magic. They only kept me because they were scared of Dumbledore.”

Robin tightened his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s a terrible way to grow up.”

“Well, I can’t imagine your childhood was brilliant,” she commented. “Severus… he’s not exactly a bundle of fun, is he?”

She felt as much as heard the snort of laughter he gave. “He didn’t exactly play football with me,” Robin admitted. “But he’s always been… kind to me. He always made sure I had what I needed, and he was around when he could be.”

“Didn’t your mum mind that he lived at the school?” Harriet wanted to know. “I can’t imagine it made having a marriage easy. Why didn’t you live here, with him?”

Robin really laughed this time. “For a start, she was a muggle,” he pointed out. “Muggles can’t visit Hogwarts. Secondly, they weren’t married. I think I was the result of a one night stand, but neither of them would actually confirm that.”

Harriet snuggled further down under the blanket, the chill of the dungeons permeating despite the cheerful fire. “I can’t really imagine Severus having romances,” she said with a yawn. “What was your mother like? Do you look like her? Because apart from your eyes, you’re not that much like your dad.”

“My photo album’s here, if you’d like to see photos,” he offered. “Let me just go and get it.”

Harriet raised her wand “ _Accio_ Robin’s photograph album.”

“Or, I suppose, you could just summon it,” he said with a sigh as the album landed on her lap with a thump. “Because magic makes everything so much easier.” He opened the album to the first page, showing a round-faced, dark haired woman grinning down as a tiny, squashed, red baby. It was a muggle photograph, stubbornly still, but Harriet got the impression that had the photography been a wizarding one, the woman would still just have been smiling down at the swaddled baby.

“That was taken the day I was born,” he told her. “Apparently my dad delivered me- you wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s actually a trained midwife. He was going to be a mediwizard before he decided to stick with potions.”

“I did know,” Harriet murmured as Robin turned the page. “He delivered me too, or so I’m told. I don’t exactly remember.” The next photo was of a younger Severus cradling a slightly older Robin, a cuddly toy floating in midair in front of the child’s face. One chubby baby arm was reaching out to make a grab at the green teddy bear.

“I hate looking at me as a baby,” he said. “I look so… squashed. Oh, here’s a better one of my mum…”

This was a wizarding photo. Robin’s mother alternated between smiling at the camera and glancing at something out of the frame. She was rounded, Harriet thought. A round face, rounded limbs. She had a delicate, pink mouth, an equally dainty nose, and big round china-doll blue eyes. “She’s beautiful,” Harriet said, a touch of envy evident in her voice.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Robin told her, dropping a kiss on her nose. “Her name was Annie. She wasn’t very old when she had me, about twenty. She was… sweet, but not very grown up, to be honest. I think my dad sorted a lot of stuff, like the rent and the bills. She just wasn’t altogether… there. She accepted the magical world like it was just perfectly normal, although I think she was secretly quite glad that I turned out to be a squib. She was kind of… jealous of magic, I think.” He fell silent for a moment, leafing through a few more pictures of him as a child. “You know,” he said, almost conversationally, “I’m the same age now as my dad was when I was born.”

Harriet still had trouble wrapping her head around Snape as a father, let alone as a nineteen year old father. That was just a couple of years after her own father had dangled him upside-down by the ankles, she realised. The idea of that gangly, greasy teenager being responsible for a tiny baby…

The fire had burned low when Severus stumbled into the room. There were no cushions on the sofa, his addled brain informed him. He wavered on his feet, ready to collapse when he caught sight of the nest of pillows and blankets, and two dark heads leaned close to each other, fast asleep.

“I told you to go,” he growled, as the world spun around him. He braced his hands on the back of the sofa, his head hanging down limply. Voldemort hadn’t been delighted with him: he’d been insistent that he did not know Dumbledore’s plans regarding the newly- female Potter. He’d hardly been able to hold onto the shields of his occlumency through the minutes-long bout of the cruciatus curse. He wished that the Dark Lord would find some creativity; he was sick of the endless unforgiveables.

Robin leapt to his feet. Harriet’s head, which had been resting on his shoulder, thumped painfully back, and she sat too. “Come on, Dad,” Robin said, supporting Severus under his arms. The spell- befuddled potions master leaned heavily on his son. “You should have gone,” he repeated stubbornly, his words a little slurred.

“Then there’d be no one to put you to bed,” Robin explained. “Harriet, can you do healing spells? He’s got a few cuts and bruises.”

“Erm, yeah, little ones.”

“I fell over,” Severus ground out. “I’ll be fine.”

Robin rolled his eyes at Harriet, and gave a tiny grin. He slowly walked his father over to a door near the fireplace. Harriet followed cautiously, unsure. Would Severus get angry at her for being here? She decided it wasn’t important. No matter how angry he would be, she had to try to help if she could.

She followed their ponderous progress into a gloomy corridor and left into a bedroom. Robin deposited his father as gently as he could on the bed. “Heal what you can,” he muttered to Harriet, slipping through an archway in the stone wall.

Severus was flopped the wrong way across the bed, his feet off one side and his head thrown back on the other. Harriet nervously perched on the edge of the mattress next to him. “What’re you doing here, Potter?” he growled.

“Helping heal you, Sir,” Harriet said quietly. Respect was probably the best option with Severus at the moment, she decided. He groaned, and she gulped. Focus on the injuries, not Severus, she told herself. Don’t think about how angry he’d be later on.

A shallow gash at his left temple had bled, leaving a thin trail of dried blood. She healed that first. There was nothing too serious that she could see, nothing that would require more than a decent application of _episky_. She’d knitted together the flesh on his forehead and was starting on a graze by his chin when Robin came back, his hands bristling with potion bottles. With a grunt of exertion, he pulled Severus up into a reclining position and held a vial to his lips. The black eye Severus had sported faded under her spell, as did the abraded skin on his palms.

Harriet couldn’t see any more injuries, and she didn’t really want to think about what was under Severus’ clothes, so she watched Robin tip the last of five potions into his father’s throat. “You should go to bed,” he told her. “I’ll get him into his bed, and I’ll kip here.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she wanted to know.

He shook his head. “I’m on early at the cafe tomorrow, and I’ve got lectures all afternoon. I’ll come and see you as soon as I can though, yeah?”

“Can I owl you?” she asked on a sudden impulse.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah, if you want. But it’ll only be a few days, I promise.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to my Draco- shippers! I promise he's not out of the picture though!
> 
> This is the last of my little stock of chapters I had saved up. I hope to get the next up in a few more days, but I'm having some trouble writing it. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this one!


	11. The day after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all my lovely comments! It always makes me happy when I see a new one pop into my inbox, because it hopefully means that you're enjoying reading what I enjoy writing!

Harriet woke late. Just by fifteen minutes, but enough to cause her to leap out of bed in a hurry. She’d have to be quick if she wanted to get a decent breakfast, and she wanted to see if Severus was at the teacher’s table.

The bathroom floor was cold under her feet. She shed her pyjamas as fast as she could, goosebumps rising across her chest and arms in the chilly air. It was only as she dropped her pale blue pyjama bottoms that she noticed the brownish stain. She stared at the stain for a few moments, her mind leaping into overdrive. It looked like blood, but she couldn’t see any injuries… then, cursing her own stupidity, she pressed two fingers between her legs. They came away streaked with red. “Merlin, why today?” she whispered to herself.

Two minutes later, following what was probably the fastest shower of her life and a  drying charm, she was scrabbling in her drawers for the bag of supplies Mrs. Weasley had given her. For the first time, she regretted Dobby unpacking all her things.

“Accio… sanitary products,” she cast, not entirely sure what to call them. The paper bag shot out of the bathroom, along with a bottle of Mrs. Skower’s Magical Mess Remover. She suspected that she didn’t actually need the latter, or at least, she hoped not. She’d just about reckoned that she was getting a handle on the ‘being a girl thing’, as she thought of it, then this had to happen.

Harriet had no idea how to use the cylinders of cottony stuff in the bag. She thought that perhaps Mrs. Weasley should have provided instructions. She hoped that the large papery pad would be enough, she had no idea just how much she would bleed. She tucked the pad inside her knickers and dressed as quickly as she could.

At least her room was closer to the great hall than Gryffindor tower, she mused. Almost everyone was already at breakfast, though. Ron had either trained one of the other boys to wake him for breakfast, or had invested in an alarm clock, because he hadn’t been late recently. “Morning,” Ron grunted.

“Everything okay?” Hermione asked with a small frown. “You’re not normally late, and you haven’t brushed your hair.”

Harriet tried to smooth down her hair whilst also surreptitiously glancing up at the head table. Severus wasn’t there.

“I’ll tell you later,” she promised her friends. “Has Snape been to breakfast?”

Ron craned his neck to look up at the teacher’s table. “Can’t see him,”

“I know, you dolt. That’s why I asked if he’d been already!” Harriet snapped. Ron threw his hands up as if in defense.

“Why d’you want to know, anyway?” Ron asked.

Harriet glanced around to make sure there was no one in whispershot. “He was summoned last night,” she hissed.

“By you know who?” Ron whispered back.

“Oh who else, Ron?” Hermione asked with an air of frustration. “Of course by him. How do you know, Harriet?”

Harriet shook her head. “Tell you later, “ she repeated. There was no way she was discussing her romantic exploits in the great hall, nor did she particularly wish to be overheard discussing her period: she was a seventh year, it should have been old hat by now. There had been less snipes about her change in sex over the last couple of weeks, and no more incidents of outright meanness. It seemed that the Gryffindor girls were content to ignore her as long as she wasn’t in their space.

The owls swept into the room through the arched windows, dropping their burdens in front of recipients. Hermione deposited the cost of her Daily Prophet into her owl’s pouch, and Harriet had to swiftly remove the corner of a letter from her pumpkin juice. The owls were useful, but careful, they were not. She carefully unfolded the slightly soggy parchment and couldn’t help a little groan.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Dumbledore wants to see me this afternoon,” she explained.

“Well, that’s a good thing,” Hermione said. “You were complaining that you felt like he’d forgotten you just last week.”

That was true enough. Dumbledore had been mysteriously absent whenever Harriet decided to go looking for him, and wasn’t a regular fixture at meals anymore. Even Ron had noticed that the Headmaster looked tired; that he didn’t seem to joke through with the other teachers anymore. Harriet had asked Severus, but he’d become almost angry, so she hadn’t pursued the matter.

“Suppose so,” Harriet sighed.

She tried to squash the relief she felt when Snape was at his usual place in the classroom, glowering at his students. He looked no different than his usual self. How many times had he done this, Harriet mused? How many times had he been summoned, tortured, and taught lessons the next day? No wonder he was always mean. She didn’t know the lasting effects of repeated cruciatus, but she was willing to bet that it wasn’t pleasant.

“Turn to page two hundred and ten in your books,” Snape instructed, his voice low, quiet, but every syllable audible perfectly in the pin-drop silence of his classroom. “You will spend this lesson creating the Veneamare potion. Which of you is able to tell me what this potion does?”

Hermione’s hand, of course, shot up. Harriet more slowly added her own, as did a number of the rest of the class. Snape, of course, preferred to embarrass, particularly when his head ached as it did today. “Mr Weasley,” he purred.

Ron looked startled. “It’s… an antidote to spider venom,’ he guessed. It was a good guess, as their previous projects had been on venomous spiders.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Snape admonished. “You failed to complete your homework reading, I see.” He wheeled around. “Miss Potter,” he hissed dangerously, “can you redeem your house?”

“Veneamare is an antidote to most love potions,” Harriet said, after gulping when Snape fixed his gaze on her. “However, it’s not effective on any love potion also containing an aphrodisiac- when there’s an aphrodisiac, it makes the potion more effective because it works by strengthening your awareness of yourself, and so it also makes you aware of your... your, erm, uh, genitalia.”

“You are not five years old, Miss Potter, there is no need to snigger,” Snape said, although Harriet was sure that blushing was more the problem than sniggering. “Nevertheless, you seem to have a basic grasp of the subject for once. Perhaps you are not completely useless.”

He eyed the rest of the class, some of whom were openly gawking at Snape for actually praising Harriet. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped. “The supplies are in the same place they have always been.”

There was a sudden flurry of activity as everyone lunged for the supply cupboards, and a  clang as cauldrons hit the work surface. Severus gave a visible wince; or at least it was visible to any of his students who were actually watching him. Harriet was the only one who was.

The morning sped by too fast for Harriet, who felt nerves bunching in her stomach as she mounted the stairs from the great hall to Dumbledore’s office for their meeting. She’d never been particularly nervous about visiting the headmaster before. She gave herself a mental shake and a telling off for her silliness, and gave the password (strawberry laces). Just because she hadn’t seen much of Dumbledore, and the last time she’d been in his office he’d chosen not to believe her didn’t mean she should wallow in nerves and self pity. She knocked on Dumbledore’s office door far more confidently than she felt.

The door swung open of its own accord to admit Harriet into the warm, comfortable room. The thick carpets and wall hangings, along with the roaring fire, kept the Headmaster’s domain cosy.

The gizmos on the tables whirred, but the usual occupant of the room was noticeably absent. Fawkes chirped softly, and Harriet went over to his perch to say hello. She stroked a finger softly against the top of his head. He was in full plumage, resplendent in red and gold and orange to match the leaves that were falling from the trees outside.

“I do apologise for my lateness, Harriet,” Dumbledore said as he entered. “Please, sit down. I regret that I was detained.” Dumbledore eased into the chair behind the desk with a sigh. “Age and infirmity must catch us all sometime,” he explained to Harriet. “Alas, it is fast creeping up upon me.”

“Sir?” Harriet asked. She knew that Dumbledore was old, of course, but now she could see him up close, she noticed the dark circles around his eyes, noticed that his face was more lined; the wrinkles deeper. His eyes didn’t really twinkle anymore: they looked more watery than bright.

“There are things that I have done of late that have been foolish, Harriet,” Dumbledore told her. “However, I have not called you here to discuss my own health. How are you getting on?”

“Fine?” Harriet ventured. She wasn’t sure what Dumbledore was getting at. He ignored her, for all she knew, actively avoided her for a month, then asked how she was getting on?

“I hear that you haven’t spent much time in Gryffindor tower this year,” Dumbledore prodded. “Are you quite sure that everything is as normal?”

As normal? Harriet thought. No, everything was not as normal! She had an entirely different body, compared to this time last year. “Well, I do have no own room now,” Harriet pointed out. “And I spend a lot of time in the library, like the other seventh years.”

Dumbledore looked over his glasses at Harriet. “Friends are very important,” he intoned. “You must not abandon your peers because of a change in your circumstances. I am sure that your Gryffindor fellows miss you.”

“Yeah, the ones that destroyed my stuff,” Harriet pointed out hotly.

“Now, Harriet,” Dumbledore warned, “Professor Snape tells me that you’ve been coming on very well in your Occlumency lessons. I am sure it will have helped your nightmares…”

“I didn’t have a nightmare!” Harriet snapped.

“Oh, of course, of course,” Dumbledore replied gently. “Here, have a lemon drop.” He offered the dish to Harriet and she took one, popping it in her mouth. “I don’t mean to bring up old grievances, you understand. I simply want to ensure that you, like all my students, have the care you need, and a suitable environment. I know that your room is very small, and I thought that you might prefer to be back in the Gryffindor dormitories, with your friends.”

Harriet privately thought that she’d rather sleep in the great lake than back in the girls’ dormitory, but she had enough sense to realise that Dumbledore probably wouldn’t want to hear that. It was interesting that Dumbledore apparently hadn’t heard of the improvements that Dobby had made to her room; Harriet had presumed that the house elves would share such information with the headmaster. After a few moments of silence, where it became obvious that Harriet wasn’t going to respond, Dumbledore sighed. “Spend some time in your common room,” he advised. “Talk to your classmates. I’m sure Mr. Longbottom would appreciate your advice.”

“Neville?” Harriet asked with a frown, “why Neville?”

Dumbledore waved a hand almost dismissively. “You have already been through much of what is on his mind at the moment. You will be able to help him.”

“Erm, okay,” Harriet agreed. “Is that all you wanted me for?”

“You will spend more time in Gryffindor?” Dumbledore confirmed. Harriet sighed and nodded. “Yes, Miss Potter, that is all.”

Harriet stood, and felt a sudden gush from between her legs. She gasped, feeling lightheaded, and gripped the back of the chair hard.

Dumbledore may have complained of old age, but he was still out of his chair and around his desk very quickly. “What’s wrong, Harriet?” he asked, one wrinkled hand on her shoulder.

Harriet shook her head. The tightening in her stomach that she’d taken to be nerves was still there, she realised. “Nothing,” she said.

“There’s clearly something wrong.” Dumbledore went to the fire and tossed in a little floo powder. “Poppy,” he called through the connection with his head in the flames, “could you come through if you’re not busy?”

“I don’t need the infirmary,” Harriet insisted, her head clearing now. “I’m fine!”

Madam Pomfrey stepped through the fireplace. “Ah, Miss Potter,” she said, “I was wondering when I’d see you. What’s the problem?”

Harriet had always quite liked Madam Pomfrey. She was strict, yes, but she had always been kind to her when she’d been stuck in the hospital wing. “It’s nothing,” she assured the mediwitch. “Just some, erm… female problems, I think.”

“I see,” Madam Pomfrey said with a smile. “First one, dear?”

“Erm, yeah…” Harriet admitted, blushing. She didn’t much want to be talking about it with anyone, and having Dumbledore in the room was hardly making it easier.

“Nothing to be worried about at all,” Madam Pomfrey assured her. “Now, how about you visit my office with me for a just a few minutes, and we’ll make sure you’re alright, hmm?”

Harriet tried to demur. “I’m fine, now, honest,” she said. “It was just a moment, I just got dizzy.”

Dumbledore gently propelled Harriet towards the fireplace. “Put an old man’s mind at rest, Miss Potter,” he insisted. “Did I not say that your welfare was important, just a few minutes ago?”

It seemed a bit churlish to refuse after that, so Harriet agreed to floo through to the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey. She’d never realised before how many of the Hogwarts fireplaces were internally connected.

The fireplace spat her out onto a rug in a room Harriet had never seen before, just beside Madam Pomfrey. It must be the matron’s private office, she decided, with a polished wooden desk and upholstered armchairs. “Have a seat, Miss Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, indicating an armchair.

“Oh, erm, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Harriet stammered, heat rising up in her cheeks again. “I… er… I think I might leak.”

“No problem,” Madam Pomfrey said with a smile. She pulled a pad from a cupboard by the desk and indicated a door. “There’s a bathroom through there, you can go and clean up.” Harriet ducked through the door into the little bathroom with relief.

When she hiked up her robes and skirt and pulled down her tights, she realised that the pad had shifted in her knickers, and whilst part of it was sodden, so was her underwear above it. Wrinkling her nose, she rolled up the blood-soaked cotton and found a bin in the corner. It was a magical waste basket, meaning that as soon as the offending item hit the bottom, it was whisked off to wherever the waste for the school went with a pop. She took out her wand and cast _Tergeo_ to clean off the blood on her clothing, leaving only a faint pinkish-brown stain. She tucked the new wad of cotton into her charm-cleaned knickers, trying to arrange it so it wouldn’t move, and rearranged her clothes.

By the time she was cleaned up and had let herself into Madam Pomfrey’s office again, the mediwitch was sat behind her desk with some paperwork, and two cups of steaming tea sat on the shining wooden surface. Madam Pomfrey smiled. “All better?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harriet said, taking the indicated seat, and the cup of tea that was pushed towards her. “Erm, is there a trick to, well, not getting the pad to move though?”

“A sticking charm is usually very effective,” the matron told her. Harriet cursed herself silently. How had she not thought of that? “Muggles, I believe, use some kind of glue on theirs… Anyway, are you feeling better now? Has the lightheadedness faded?”

“Er, yeah,” Harriet said. Then she realised that the rosy-cheeked witch in front of her was probably going to be her best source of information. “But, well, I don’t really know much about this. Mrs. Weasley gave me some of the pads, and some kind of cylinder things, and I knew that witches bled, but, that’s about it…”

“Perfectly understandable,” Madam Pomfrey reassured. “Most witches have their cycles every month, and bleed for about five days. Some are heavier than others- you’ll discover for yourself how much protection you need. It’s better to err on the side of caution, though, as you discovered- leaking through your clothes is never fun.” She smiled wryly, and Harriet thought that she was probably speaking from experience. “You might find that you get headaches, cramping in your belly, backache, or you might feel dizzy. Those are all perfectly normal: a pain potion will help with the aches and some chocolate will do wonders as well. You might find that your magical capacity is very slightly diminished for a day or two just before you bleed: that’s normal too, and it shouldn’t affect you unless you are doing something very strenuous.”

“Can I still fly?” Harriet asked anxiously.

“Of course!” Madam Pomfrey assured her, and took a sip of her tea. “Keeping active and going on as normal is the best thing to do. Although you may prefer to use the tampons- the cylinders you mentioned- as wearing a pad on a broom can feel unusual. You use them by inserting them up inside your vaginal canal. I can show you where I keep extra supplies for all the girls, so you don’t have to worry about running out. Do you have any other questions?”

Harriet nibbled her lower lip as she thought. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Erm, do you have a potion for the pain? I thought I was just nervous, but my stomach still hurts…”

Madam Pomfrey got up and fetched a bottle of pale purple potion for her. “A few more things, Miss Potter,” the matron told her. “If you’re able to bleed, you’re able to breed, as my mother was fond of saying. Remember that unprotected sex could have consequences.”

Harriet had thought that she was done blushing. It turned out that she was wrong.

“There are potions that can prevent pregnancy. Come to me again if you need them.” She eyed Harriet up. “I don’t suppose you’re going to let me examine you, are you?” she asked.

“I’d rather not,” Harriet stammered

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “I thought as much,” she said. “Well, we shall assume that everything is present and correct between your legs. You must come back if you have any worries at all. Come on, I’ll show you the girl’s store cupboards.”


	12. The day after continues

Harriet mounted the stairs to Gryffindor tower without too much trepidation. After all, it was still lesson time, so the younger students would all be in their classes; it was just the sixth and seventh years who would be around, and many of them would be shut away in the library.

She’d been in the tower since her move to the room near the great hall, of course. But only a couple of times, always during free lessons, where most students were away elsewhere. Increasingly, she, Hermione and Ron spent evenings in her room. Hermione enjoyed the quiet to work (and the contents of Harriet’s augmented bookshelves), Harriet liked not being bothered, and Ron was delighted by the snacks Dobby sometimes left for them. Hermione had taken to complaining that she’d never before known anyone think with their stomach so much as Ron this past year. He was shooting up in height, though, just about brushing six feet. He must have needed the energy to feed his growth.

The portrait swung open for her, and she climbed into the common room. It was completely empty, but she knew that the likelihood of Ron being in the library without Hermione to cajole him there was slim to none. She trod the familiar spiral stairs up to the boys’ dormitories, her heart in her throat as she remembered the years where she had belonged here.

The door to the seventh year’s room was ajar, by just enough that she could hear a choked sob. Careful of the creak she knew was part and parcel of that particular door, she pushed it open. The curtains on Ron’s bed were pushed back, and he was nowhere to be seen, but a huddled figure was curled up on the bed next to the window. Neville’s bed.

“Neville?” Harriet said quietly, “What is it?” Neville looked up in surprise. Harriet entered the room fully, pushing the door closed behind her. She settled herself on the soft mattress at the foot of the bed, not wanting to crowd the upset boy-man.

“Hi Harriet,” Neville said with a sniff, wiping the back of his hand across his cheeks and under his nose. “I… I didn’t know you were there.”

“I was looking for Ron,” Harriet explained. “Neville, what’s the matter? Is it your parents? Did something happen?” Harriet’s mind immediately jumped to Alice and Frank Longbottom, stuck in St. Mungo’s. Perhaps Voldemort had managed to kill them, even within the hospital? Perhaps he’d figured out that the prophecy could now only refer to Neville? “Or your grandmother? Is she ill?”

Neville shook his head. “No, nothing like that,” he said. “It’s just… Professor Dumbledore says I need to do better, work harder. I’m not good enough at Defence, he said… even though I’m quite good at defence now, since Harry… I mean, since you taught me.”

Harriet’s heart sunk. She understood now. Dumbledore asking her to talk to Neville- it was because Neville was taking her place. Neville was expected to kill Voldemort. She remembered that Severus had warned her about it, warned her that Dumbledore wanted to train Neville up. If Neville was expected to be Voldemort’s downfall, well, then, she was off the hook, so to speak. It wasn’t her responsibility any more, and no one expected anything of her. But she’d been trained for it since the age of eleven, pushed in situation after situation designed to push her and test her, and she’d survived them all, with the help of Ron and Hermione. Neville, though… he’d had none of that. He’d just wanted to live a quiet life with his plants.

“You should come to defence club,” Harriet suggested. “Lupin runs it, on a Wednesday evening. It’s good, honest, and you’ll be one of the best there anyway, because it’s open to all years. You can help teach the lower years, and I found out when I did the D.A. that teaching it really makes you better at it.”

“You really think I could teach them?” Neville asked shakily. “I don’t even take defence…”

Harriet shrugged. “You don’t have to take defence to join the club,” she assured him. “And you’re good at it, honest. You were really good, in fifth year. You got an E in your OWL, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Neville agreed with a sniff.

“There you go then. Come on, Neville, it’ll be fun!” she insisted. “And I can help you if you need it- I’ll show you where my room is later. You can come and visit.”

Neville nodded, but their conversation never got any further before Ron and Seamus burst in. “Wondering where you were,” Ron informed Harriet.

Seamus had stopped dead in the doorway. “Are you meant to be here?” he asked in his lilting accent. “I mean, now you’re a girl and all?”

Harriet shrugged, but she never got a chance to reply. “Aww, give over, mate,” Ron said.

At just the same moment, though, Neville spoke up too. “Why shouldn’t she be here? She’s our friend,” he informed Seamus. Harriet couldn’t help a smile at that one.

Seamus sighed, although he still didn’t look entirely convinced. “I’m going to the library,” he said. “Need to get started on that charms essay.”

“Eurgh,” Ron groaned. “More bloody homework. Harriet, Neville, you coming?”

Harriet looked at Neville with a raised eyebrow. She didn’t really want to leave him on his own when he was still upset. “How about the common room instead?” Neville suggested. “I keep running into packs of Slytherins in the library.”

Seamus shrugged. “Whatever. Makes no difference to me.” he was still eying Harriet up, and she couldn’t help but think that he was happy as long as he got her out of the dorm. He picked up his schoolbag and gestured for the others to go before him. Harriet went first, feeling just a little bit hurt. Whilst they’d never been as close as she and Ron, Seamus had shared a room with her for six years. That should have stood for something, she thought.

McGonagall was just pinning something on the common room noticeboard as they trooped down the stairs. She glanced over. “What, Miss Potter, were you doing in the boys’ side?” she asked sharply.

“Just looking for my friends, Professor,” Harriet explained with a sigh. McGonagall’s gaze softened slightly as three boys appeared after her.

“Remember that fraternising in bedrooms between the sexes is not allowed at Hogwarts, Miss Potter.” She tapped the notice she’d just stuck up, though. “You four might be interested in this though- apparition lessons start next week.” She nodded to them and climbed back through the portrait hole.

“Oooh! Finally!” Ron exclaimed. “Now Hermione can stop lording it over us because she got hers last year. Just because she’s the oldest in the year…” He winced a little at the twelve galleon fee. Not for the first time, Harriet wished that the Weasley’s would take some help from her. She wouldn’t even notice the twelve galleons. She took the quill Ron handed her to sign her name on the sheet, just below his, and then passed it along to Neville.

“I just know I’m going to lose an arm or a leg…” Neville said morosely as he scribbled.

They enjoyed the quiet of the common room for almost an hour before lessons finished. They had the coveted table by the fire, sitting in silence apart from an occasional question on the homework. Harriet was settling into the comfort of the tower once more, and wondering why she hadn’t tried spending time here earlier in the year.

The portrait hole swung open minutes after lessons had finished, and students flowed in like thick, black oil. Most peeled off up the stairs to deposit their schoolbags, but a good number tucked themselves into the sofas and chairs around the room to while away the half an hour until dinner.

Seamus waved a little group over to them: Dean, tailed by Lavender and Parvati. Lavender’s face scrunched into a scowl when she spotted Harriet sitting on the floor by the table, cross legged on one of the giant cushions. “What’s he doing here?” she asked, pointing.

“Did you miss the memo, Lavender?” Ron asked sarcastically. “Harriet’s a girl.”

“Not really, though,” Lavender snipped. “Hey, guys, there’s an imposter here!” she called out, loud enough to catch the attention of most of the common room.

“Harriet’s not an imposter!” Neville declared, standing up. “She… she’s a Gryffindor, same as any of us.” He looked around, and then, realising how many eyes were on him, plopped back into his chair, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Harriet.

“Then why’s he hanging ‘round with Malfoy, huh? I’ve seen them, sat in the library together!” Lavender called.

She decided enough was enough. She needed to stand up for herself, not rely on her friends to do it. She climbed up onto the table to everyone could see her. “For those of you that haven’t figured it out,” she said, keeping her voice low so it would carry, “I’m a girl.” The hubbub died down, and she was suddenly speaking to a silent common room. A few third years came down the stairs from their room and flattened themselves against the wall to listen. “I was born a girl, but because of some obscure inheritance laws, I was disguised as a boy on the day I was born. I didn’t know, I never knowingly deceived any of you, and I don’t want to. I just want to be left in peace to finish my last year here. if you have a problem with that, fine. I can’t tell any of you what to do. But please just keep your opinions to yourself.”

Hermione had come into the common room unnoticed during Harriet’s little speech, and she was the first to clap. Soon, a few others joined in the applause, and Harriet made to get down from the table. Before her feet touched the floor, though, she was hit with a hex. The stingy tickle in her cheeks and chin was familiar; it was the beard growing hex Pavarti had thrown at her in defence. With a grimace she used the same spells as Lupin has to stop the growth and shave it off. Perhaps she hadn’t been as convincing as she’d hoped.

A collective gasp ran around the room, and Harriet looked up to find Ginny with her wand pointed straight at Lavender. “In case you haven’t heard, Brown, we’ve got a match against Ravenclaw on Sunday. I’m not having you put our seeker in the hospital wing, so don’t you dare cast whatever nasty little hex you were thinking of. I’d like to win the Quidditch cup again this year, thanks. I don’t much care for the situation, but I’m not putting the reputation of my house in danger.”

Lavender gulped and nodded, knowing that the redhead’s hexes weren’t something to be trifled with. Ron and Hermione cheered, followed by the rest of the Gryffindor quidditch team, and Harriet could only look at Ginny with utter bewilderment. Ginny pressed the tip of her wand against Lavender’s cheek for good measure. “I don’t care if Potter’s a he, she or it, as long as the snitch gets caught. And I’m not covering for you any more. One more stupid prank, and I’ll go to McGonagall,” she hissed, and turned on her heel to stalk up to her dormitory.  

Harriet fidgeted all through dinner, desperate to get down to the quidditch pitch and see if she could have a private word with Ginny. The younger girl, though, had other ideas. She arrived at the training session with seconds to spare, leaving no time for a chat.

She was attentive, as she’d been at every session, of the plans and diagrams, and she flew perfectly. Harriet knew that Ginny would make an excellent team captain, in fact, she wasn’t sure that Ginny wouldn’t do a better job than she herself did. Like her brother, she had a natural grasp of strategy which, paired with spectacular flying abilities, made her a formidable player.

The light had gone completely, leaving only the magical floodlights on the quidditch pitch by the time Harriet called a stop to the session. “Okay, everyone,” she said, alighting on the ground, “Brilliant session. I reckon we’re going to trounce Ravenclaw on Sunday, though their seeker’s an unknown- she’s the girl that transferred in from Salem. Jimmy, remember that you and Anna are a team- try to keep the bludgers together so you don’t have to split up too far. It’s easier with two sets of eyes than one. Great work, though, to all of you. Ginny, can I have a word before you go, please?”

Ginny scowled. Harriet knew that pulling her up in front of the whole team wasn’t ideal, but there was no way that she’d catch her alone otherwise. She knelt to strap the bludgers back into their box, waiting for her housemate to come to her.

“What, Potter?” Ginny snapped, standing over her. Harriet straightened.

“I wanted to say thanks,” she said. “For earlier, in the common room.”

“Don’t think it means I suddenly like you,” Ginny said tartly. “I just don’t want to lose at quidditch. I’m still mad at you for leading me on, though.”

Harriet’s eyebrows shot up. “Ginny, I didn’t… I never meant to…”

“Right.” Ginny said. She poked Harriet with a jabbing finger, in the middle of the chest. “‘Let’s be friends, Ginny’ you said, ‘I have too much to think about, Ginny’... you let me go on thinking that we might get back together.”

Harriet glanced around. Ron was still there, waiting for them, but he was far enough away not to hear every word. She dropped her voice anyway. “Look, Ginny, I’m sorry, I really am. I was trying to let you down gently. You’re the prettiest, most talented witch I know, but… I’ve never been that into witches. If I was, you’d be the one.”

Ginny snorted. “Nice try, Potter,” she said. “I’m still not your friend.” She shouldered her broom and headed back off to the castle.

Ron came out of the shadows. “Everything okay, mate?” he asked.

Harriet pulled the tie from her ponytail, releasing her sweat-streaked hair, letting the cold breeze dry it. “I suppose nothing’s really changed,” she admitted. “Ginny still hates me. Merlin, this feels like the day from hell.”

“Aw, don’t worry. She’ll come around,” Ron promised. Harriet wasn’t so sure.

Hermione was leaning against the portrait entrance to Harriet’s rooms when she and Ron arrived. “Right, now you can tell us what’s been going on today,” she declared. Harriet sighed and opened the portrait. She sort of wanted a long bath, but she couldn’t put off Ron and Hermione any longer. She owed it to them to tell them what was going on. She just wasn’t sure where to start.

Dobby had left a big pitcher of pumpkin juice and a stack of cauldron cakes on the corner of the desk, and Ron and Harriet fell on them with delight. It had been quite a hard training session: Harriet wasn’t having anyone saying she’d gone soft. “So, spill,” Ron said after he’d inhaled a cupcake. “How did you know about Snape?”

Harriet chewed the inside of her lip. “Well, I went for my Occlumency lesson last night, but Snape wasn’t there,” she said. “Robin was, though.”

“Robin?” Hermione interrupted.

“Oh, erm, Snape’s son,” Harriet explained. She’d never quite gotten around to telling her friends about his appearance at the first of her meetings with Severus, and she certainly hadn’t mentioned her growing attraction to him. “Anyway, he was there, and he told me Snape had been summoned. He was kind of upset, so I stayed with him, to wait until his dad came back, and well… we kissed.”

A shower of crumbs burst from Ron’s mouth as he snorted and choked. Hermione wrinkled her nose and vanished the mess. “You kissed Professor Snape’s son?” she confirmed calmy.

“Erm, yeah… I.. I think we’re kind of a couple now.”

“But you barely know him!” Hermione insisted, whilst Ron spluttered disjointed words in the background. She sent him a glare. “Shut up, Ronald,” she admonished.

Harriet worried at the hem of her quidditch top. She couldn’t quite meet her friends’ eyes. “I’ve met him a few times,” she said, “and I got to know him last night. He was showing me photos, telling me about his mum… he actually lived here for a year, in our fourth year.”

Ron was finally regaining the power of speech. “Mate, you can’t be serious. You can’t have snogged anyone related to Snape!”

“It was… really nice,” Harriet insisted. “He’s really nice, he’s not like Snape at all. He’s nineteen, and he goes to muggle university. He likes loads of muggle bands- he’s really into music. I like him.”

“But he’s a squib!” Ron exclaimed.

“So?” Harriet and Hermione asked at the same time.

Ron looked between them, puzzlement in his eyes. “But, squibs, they’re… they’re like second class citizens. Not having any magic, it’s shameful. No one wants to admit to having a squib relative.”

“Second class citizens like, maybe, muggleborns?” Hermione asked, her voice dangerously low.

Ron’s eyes widened. “There’s nothing wrong with being a muggleborn!” he insisted. “Muggleborns are great. It’s the having the magic that matters.”

“I don’t care if he has magic or not,” Harriet declared. “Magic’s nice, but it’s not the be all and end all. There are loads of lovely muggles- they’re not all like my pathetic aunt and uncle.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Harriet,” Hermione sighed. “It’s a completely different world.”

“I know.” Harriet snapped. “I lived as a muggle when I was a kid, remember! Anyway, Snape came back in really bad shape. I was worried about him, that’s why I wanted to make sure he was okay this morning.”

Ron and Hermione traded glances that seemed to say that they thought Harriet quite mad. “Well, he seemed fine, other than randomly heaping praise on you,” Ron supplied eventually. “Hey, does that mean he’s going to start being nice to you, if you're shagging his soon? Do we get some kind of benefit too?”

Harriet threw a pillow at Ron. “I’m not shagging him!” she countered. “And I don’t think Snape even knows we’re together… not unless Robin told him his morning.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “No offense, Harriet, but right now, i’m trying to get the image of you with a slightly younger Snape out of my head, and it’s kind of disgusting. What happened with Dumbledore?”

Harriet explained her odd conversation with Dumbledore, and his instructions to spend more time with Neville. Hermione looked thoughtful but had nothing to say about it, whereas Ron agreed that Harriet should spend more time in Gryffindor- after all, he pointed out “it’s still your house. The morons need to accept that.”

She balked at telling even Ron and Hermione about her dealings with Madam Pomfrey, though. Some things were best kept private.

 

 


	13. Facing the consequences

Severus was pacing before the fire when Harriet popped out of the hearth, stumbling a little. She wondered if she’d ever get the hang of magical transport: with the exception of brooms, it all made her feel ever so slightly queasy.

“Were you here when I returned on Monday night?” Severus demanded before Harriet could fully right yourself.

“Yes,” Harriet said. “Don’t you remember?”

Severus shook his head, his dark hair swaying and catching the firelight. “Memories are often hazy following a long bout of the cruciatus curse, or the imperius curse, for that matter,” he lectured. “Were you, or were you not, asleep on the rug with Robin?”

“Yes…” Harriet hedged. It sounded like Robin hadn’t mentioned anything to his father, but that Severus was suspicious anyway.

“Did you engage in sexual intercourse?” he snapped.

Harriet’s eyes went wide. “No! Not that it’s any of your business!”

Severus stopped his pacing directly in front of her. He gripped her chin, a little harder than he would normally touch her. “ _Legilimens_ ,” he whispered.

Harriet threw everything she had into the shields. She could feel Severus prodding, trying to get through them. He grunted in annoyance, and broke the connection, both mentally and physically. “You will have to work on making your shields less obtrusive,” he said. “Make them look like, feel like, the rest of your mind. It is better if the one invading your mind does not realise that they are being stopped. Now, tell me, what, exactly, happened between you and my son on Monday night.”

“Nothing!” Harriet snapped. “Are we going to have a lesson, or are you just going to interrogate me?”

“Manners, Miss Potter,” Severus snarled. “And ‘nothing’ does not normally take the form of curling up and sleeping beside one another. What were you doing?”

“We kissed, okay? That’s it, that’s all. He was worried about you, I was worried about him.”

“Idiot girl,” Severus hissed. “What has possessed you?”

Harriet glowered up at him. “I like him. He likes me. What’s the problem?”

Snape’s upper lip curled in a snarl. “He’s a squib, Harriet. He is everything the Dark Lord fights against, and I won’t have him dragged into this, this war. I’ve given so much to protect him, all these years. You couldn’t understand the love I had for him, the second he was in my arms. I’d give anything for him, and, Merlin help me, for you as well. You’re Lily’s daughter, and you may as well be a child to me too. You being together- it’s just not possible. You cannot understand each other’s worlds.”

“I won’t hurt him,” Harriet said, gently. She couldn’t blame Severus for wanting the best for his child.

He shook his head sadly. “You may not be able to help it, girl,” he retorted, his voice softer now. “The Dark Lord’s interest remains on you, as much as ever. Should he ever learn of Robin’s existence… he would be killed, Harriet, and so would I.” Severus sat down in his accustomed armchair, Sheba moving only just in time to avoid her tail being squashed. He gave a wave of his arm, inviting Harriet to a seat. She sat. “He is the reason I turned from my path as a Death Eater. I didn’t turn to Dumbledore until your mother’s death, but I was trying to extricate myself from the Dark Lord’s camp since the day Robin was born. I couldn’t ally myself with a man who would have killed my son, simply for being born of a muggle woman.”

“That’s why my mum trusted you?” Harriet asked. “She knew about Robin?”

Severus nodded, then rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, staring into the fire. “Yes, she knew. She was one of the few who did. It was she that I turned to, when Annie found me, told me she was expecting a child. Lily… she always said that she knew I was better than the choice I had made. We… we were better friends than you might think, after Hogwarts. She didn’t tell James, but we met frequently. When she... died, I knew that I wasn’t doing enough against the Dark Lord. It wasn’t enough to lie low, hope he would forget me, out in the outer circle of followers. If he could try to kill you, a baby, he would never hesitate to kill my child.” Contrary to his earlier rage, his voice was quiet now, like the whisper of cold steel. Harriet thought that he didn’t really seem to be speaking to her so much as to himself. “I turned myself on the mercy of Albus Dumbledore, and promised him that I’d do whatever was necessary to bring the Dark Lord down.”

He suddenly looked up at her, his eyes sharp and bright. “For all my faults, I love my son. He is what I could not be: kind, and giving, and free. He is no toy, Harriet.”

Harriet wanted to tell him that she wasn’t an idiot, that she wasn’t cruel, to berate him for even suggesting it, but she thought better of it. “I’m not going to hurt him,” she reassured. “I… I like him. I want him to be happy. I know that he doesn’t have magic, and I don’t care. I don’t have blue eyes; that doesn’t make me inferior to someone who does. I want to fight against a world where he’s not accepted because he happens to not be able to use a wand.”

Severus scrutinised at her closely for a few minutes. She kept her mental shields high, expecting a legilimency attack at any moment, but it never came. “Stay there,” he said eventually, and stood, going into his storeroom.

“Here,” he said on his return, thrusting a vial of amber potion at her. “Drink this.”

“Why? What is it?” she asked.

“Well, it’s most certainly not pumpkin juice,” Severus sneered. “I don’t want you and my son together-” he held up a warning hand to stop Harriet’s plea,”-but I was a teenager once. It’s a contraceptive. It’ll last for a month, then you’ll need another dose.”

“We’re not sleeping together,” she insisted, trying to hand back the vial.

He crossed his arms in a childish gesture of defiance. “I don’t care. If you do not drink that potion now, here, in front of me, I will ensure that you will not see him again. I can easily block the floo.”

Harriet glared at him, but uncorked the potion and downed it. It tasted strongly of lemons, sour and bitter and mouth-puckering. Severus took the empty vial from her and banished it back to his storeroom. “I’ll not have any babies whilst you’re still at school,” he informed her sharply. “You are not to leave the school to see him. You are not to take him wandering the corridors- yes, Harriet, I know about that infernal cloak of yours. You are not to tell anyone of his existence, and most especially not that he is my child.”

“Erm, I kind of already told Ron and Hermione,” Harriet admitted. It seemed stupid now: she should have realised that Voldemort would have a problem with squibs.

Snape sighed deeply. “I should have guessed. Well, they are at least pathetically loyal to you. You are to impress upon them that they must not share this knowledge. Should a student with Death Eater connections overhear and relay the facts…” Severus didn’t even have to finish the sentence. Harriet shuddered.

“I’ll tell them,” she assured Severus hurriedly. “They won’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, well, we can at least credit Miss Granger with the intelligence to be aware of the consequences,” Severus intoned. “Perhaps she can even keep Weasley in line.”

Severus sent Harriet away early, with a book on guided meditation that he insisted would help her develop shields undetectable to anyone using legilimency on her. She knew that Ron and Hermione were at another prefect’s meeting, and whilst she knew she should go up to the common room or the library, she just wanted a bit of time alone. She settled down on her bed, the book from Severus on her lap, but did more staring off into the distance than reading.

She’d kind of suspected that Severus wouldn’t be delighted by she and Robin being together, but she hadn’t expected his reasons. She hadn’t really considered the fact that, as the child of a muggle, Robin would be high on Voldemort’s hit list, possibly just behind the muggleborn witches and wizards, and that if Voldemort ever found out that Severus had had a child with a muggle, allowed that child to live… Severus would have been killed too.

She jumped and gave a little shriek when the fire flashed green and a dark figure tumbled out. At first she thought Severus had decided to come and tell her off some more, but when the dim light caught the hair, she realised that it was deep ebony brown, not inky blue-black, and he wasn’t wearing robes. Robin, then. He straightened and smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Just… surprised,” Harriet replied.

“I hear dad read you the riot act. Sorry about that, too.” He looked around. “Nice room,” he commented. “Is it okay that I came through? I can go away if you’d prefer.”

She scrambled off the bed. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” she insisted. “I just wasn’t expecting you. Did he tell you off too?”

“Oh, yeah,” Robin said. He perched on the sofa next to her. “I’m a distraction you don’t need, apparently, and I can’t hope to keep up with you. He said that you’re a powerful witch, and you deserve a powerful partner.”

“He said I’m powerful?” Harriet asked, aghast. That was two praises from Severus in a week- he must be going soft.

Robin nodded. “One of the best. He said you could be anything, do anything that you wanted, as long as you weren’t distracted from your schoolwork. Harriet… if you’ve thought better of this, it’s okay. I understand. Just tell me, and I’ll go.”

“No!” Harriet exclaimed, cutting him off before he even started. “I want this, honestly, I do.” Who was Severus to decide how much of a distraction she could take anyway? She’d managed the triwizard tournament when she was fourteen, she could manage a bit of kissing now!

Robin looked down at her seriously. “I don’t want to hold you back, Harriet.”

“You won’t,” Harriet whispered, and stretched up to kiss him. He pulled back. She wasn’t expecting the hurt that blossomed in her chest. Why didn’t he want to kiss her?

His hands were warm when he cupped her face between his palms. “You’re worth too much to the wizarding world to risk,” he murmured, “and yet, I can’t help myself.” He brushed his lips first against her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and finally, her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut and she couldn’t help a little moan of desire when he deepened their kiss, his tongue meeting hers. She pressed up into him, her belly clenching with unfamiliar feelings.

Her hands came up almost involuntarily to rest against his shoulders. One of his moved around to the back of her head, beneath her hair, a gentle grip at the top of her neck. She gasped again as the other moved down, resting against the dip of her waist. He broke the kiss and pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I got carried away.”

“Stop apologising,” she told him with a hint of a smile. “I think I like carried away.” She knelt up on the sofa so she was at about the same level as him, and pressed his lips to his. “I like kissing,” she declared in a whisper, breaking contact for just as long as it took to say the words. Feeling bold, she trailed a hand down his chest and ghosted over his stomach, bringing it to rest against the bulge she could feel against his jeans. She’d been a boy too, and whilst she had never quite understood the oversexed hormones of her peers, she knew what felt good. She cupped her fingers firmly around him.

He groaned and pulled back. “No, Harriet,” he said breathily. “Don’t make me push you too far.”

“It’s okay,” she insisted. “I’m fine with it.”

“I’m not,” Robin told her gently. “I don’t want to go too fast here, Harriet. I don’t want you to sleep with me in the heat of the moment and regret it in the morning. It should be when we’re comfortable with each other, and we have time. Not now.”

Harriet frowned. She didn’t want to be told what to do. She climbed over Robin’s lap, straddling his thighs. “Harriet,” he said warningly, putting his hands on her hips to hold her in place. “I’m not doing this.”

She huffed sulkily and settled back until she was perched on his knee. “What’s the point if we don’t have sex?” she wanted to know.

He smiled gently at her. “Sex is nice, but it’s not everything, you know,” he explained. “Talking, cuddling, kissing… just knowing that there’s someone who cares. That’s what it’s about.”

“Don’t you think I’m pretty enough?” she asked.

“Oh, Harriet…” A hand came up to stroke her cheek. “You’re beautiful. Didn’t you feel how hard I was? This just isn’t what I want for my first time with you. For a start, my dad knows I’m in here, and I don’t want him to come looking for me whilst we’re in the middle of it.”

Harriet sighed. He was right, and she hated him for it. He leaned closer to her. “Just think of me when you touch yourself tonight.” Her shock must have shown on her face. “What?” he asked with a laugh. “You can’t pretend you don’t masturbate.” He looked closer. “You really don’t?” he asked, puzzled.

Harriet looked away. “Erm, not really…”

His brows were quirked high. “Seriously?”

“When… when I was a boy, I did. But it never felt all that good. As a girl… well, I tried once, but I was interrupted. I’ve never really tried again. I don’t really know how.”

He chuckled. “You see? This is why you aren’t ready for more. You don’t even know your own body yet.” He pulled her down against his chest, her cheek resting against the side of his neck. He smelt nice, like pine and wood. A gentle hand stroked her hair.

“I take it you’re a virgin, then?” he asked quietly after a minute.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He wasn’t content with the answer. “Just as a girl?” he prodded. “That is, did you sleep with anyone when you were a boy?”

She chewed her lower lip. For all she’d told Robin that she didn’t want to be known as a slut, she also knew that she was one of the last virgins left in the year. “I’ve never been with anyone,” she admitted. “I just didn’t really want to sleep with girls, and, well, homosexuality just isn’t really accepted in the wizarding world.

“I know,” he said into her hair. “Magical society is really intolerant. You fit in, or else.”

Harriet snuggled into his neck. “Do you hate it, being a squib?” she asked.

He shrugged, her head rising with his shoulder. “It is what it is,” he said. “Yeah, I get jealous of you, of all magical people, for being able to manipulate the world at will, but jealousy won’t cure anything. I just don’t have enough magic. You have no idea how desperately I waited for the post, the summer I turned eleven. But I just didn’t have enough magic to come to Hogwarts. I begged dad, I begged Dumbledore, but it’s not their choice. It’s just how it is.”

“Wait,” Harriet said, pulling back from his embrace. “Enough magic? I thought you didn’t have any?”

“How do you think I can get around anti-muggle wards?” Robin said with a smile. “May I borrow your wand for a minute?” he asked.

Harriet frowned and slid her wand out from her sleeve, offering it to Robin. “ _Fulgia_ ” he said assertively. One or two droopy sparks appeared from the wand tip, fading almost at once. He handed it back to Harriet. “Only spell I can do,” he explained with a wry grin. “And only inside Hogwarts- the magic here makes it easier. Dad thinks that I might be better, with training, but of course, no one will sell a wand to a squib, and you must know that wands don’t like working for those that don’t own them.”

Harriet nodded. They’d done a number of lessons on theory of magic in Charms last year, and that was one of the points Flitwick had emphasised. As Ollivander said, it was the wand that chose the wizard, and the wand chose not to work for a wizard who did not have it’s loyalty.

Robin glanced at his watch and sighed. “I should be getting home,” he said. “I’ve got a bugger of a Latin translation to do.” He kissed her gently on the top of her head, and she climbed off his lap.

A last embrace, and he was by the fireplace, reaching for her pot of floo powder. “Hey, Harriet?” he said, “you’ve got homework from me. Before next week, find some time for self-pleasure, yeah?” He grinned as her eyes went wide, and then the was gone into the emerald flames.

It was only when she went to bed that she realised her plans to leap into bed with Robin would have resulted in extreme embarrassment. She imagined that not many people had sex whilst the female of the pair was bleeding.

 

 


	14. Packaged and posted

Package owls were usually big, and this one was no exception. The eagle owl set his burden down on the breakfast table next to Harriet on Saturday morning, resting atop it for a moment before flying back off with a hoot.

Harriet frowned as she unwrapped the box. She wasn’t expecting any parcels, but it had her name on the front in neat cursive. The same writing  marched across the box beneath the wrapping.

_Don’t open this around other people!_

_Robin_

Hermione looked at it appraisingly. “Are you sure it’s safe?” she asked. “What could he be sending you that you can’t open in public?”

“Kinky sex toys,” Ron supplied immediately, barely looking up from breakfast, and only half joking.

Harriet shrugged. “I’ll find out later I suppose,” she said. A quick shrinking charm on the box let it slide neatly into her bag, crammed with textbooks for a morning’s work in the library.

Everyone was easily distracted from the mysterious package though, with the next arrival. An owl with feathers charmed electric blue swooped down and dropped a package directly onto Harriet’s plate. Ron finally tore his eyes away from his plate.They widened. “Giving the twins business?” he wanted to know. Whilst not the typical Wheezes packaging, only the twins could have chosen such colours.

“Didn’t order anything,” Harriet said. She tore open the orange and pink striped paper, and the box inside magically resized itself, springing out to knock over the toast rack. Hermione snatched the teetering pitcher of pumpkin juice before it could topple.

At the top of the box, Harriet found a note from the twins.

_Hey sexy witch,_

_We heard from a little birdie or two that you were having a few run-ins with certain students, and thought to ourselves: well, we can help! So, please find enclosed a selection of our products on the house, both old favourites and new prankish delights. We’re sure you can find a good use for them..._

_Fred and George_

Harriet laughed and dug down into the box, handing the note over for Ron and Hermione’s perusal. First out was a big pack of Canary Creams, and another of Budgerigar Bourbons.  A selection of trick wands, all meticulously labelled with their effects and a large, carefully sealed package of dungbombs came next, followed by some biting teacups. At the very bottom were some new products- vibrant, spell resistant hair dyes designed to look like normal shampoo, a face soap which promised to provide the user with purple spots and a face cream which would cause the victim to grow a luxurious mustache. Even Hermione had to give a little snicker at the twins’ plans.

It was the package from Robin, though, that seemed to weigh heavily in her bag as she walked alongside Hermione down to the library. Ron trailed back with Neville and Luna, who’d agreed to join them.

Even though it was only shortly after breakfast, the library was already busy. Hermione knew all the best spaces, though: she found them a table tucked away in the ‘Magical Maladies’ section. Even with Madam Pince’s best efforts, though, the room was noisy, the scratch of quills, rustle of paper and occasional giggles of younger students disturbing the peace. Apparently younger year Ravenclaws didn’t like their common room, and would prefer to spend their time in the library, disturbing everyone else.

Harriet looked up from the last six inches of her transfiguration essay in surprise when a pile of books thumped to the table beside her. “Mind if I sit here?” Malfoy asked. “Everywhere else is full.”

Harriet glanced around the table uncertainly. Neville looked like he’d just swallowed a bee, Luna was starting off at the ceiling, apparently not having even noticed Malfoy, and Ron was suddenly studiously scribbling. Only Hermione was looking up, a slight frown marring her features. “Okay,” she whispered, and went back to her own work.

Malfoy settled into the seat next to Harriet, so close that she could feel the heat from his body. Malfoy had been as good as his promise: he didn’t bother the Gryffindors, and Harriet hadn’t had so much as a snigger in the corridor from a sixth or seventh year Slytherin. Even given that, though, Harriet couldn’t bring herself to trust him. What about all the insults and jibes and downright hexes through the years? How could all that just disappear?

A loud chorus of laughter erupted from the other side of the shelves. “Out!” Madam Pince roared.

Hermione threw down her quill. “Harriet, can we work in your room, please?” she asked. “It’s horrid in here today, and I’d really love to check my essay against some of your books.”

Luna looked at Harriet, her eyes bright. “Oh yes, I haven’t seen your room yet,” she interjected.

“Anywhere but here,” Ron said. Harriet suspected that he wasn’t so much interested in the peace and quiet of Harriet’s sanctuary, but the warm fire, the sofa, the chess set and the possibility of a snack.

“Yes, where do you hide these days, Potter?” Malfoy asked smoothly.

“Why’re you hanging ‘round with Gryffindors anyway Malfoy?” Ron asked with something of a sneer.

Even a shrug, when performed by Draco Malfoy, managed to be effortlessly elegant. “I’m not exactly flavour of the month with the Slytherins, and I’m starting to believe that it may be a good thing,” he explained. “Perhaps the Slytherins have had it wrong all along. Perhaps purity isn’t everything.” He looked around the table, at least attempting to meet the eyes of all those present. Luna was staring intently at him, but Neville was studiously looking down, and Ron glancing around. Harriet looked away quickly as Malfoy shifted in his chair to better see her.

“Well, it would seem that everyone has some good in them,” Hermione responded sanctimoniously. “Anyway, Harriet, your room? We’ll never all fit in mine.”

Harriet sighed. She nodded and gathered up her parchment and quills. The others did the same, and trooped out after Harriet. It wasn’t far from the library to her rooms, so in just a few minutes, she was opening her portrait door.

“Your password is _alohomora_?” Malfoy asked with a small sneer. “Isn’t that kind of… pathetically simple?”

“Maybe it’s simple enough to be genius,” Harriet replied smoothly. Hermione, though, couldn’t resist explaining what she’d done, setting the wards to recognise Harriet’s magical signature. Whilst Harriet wasn’t convinced of the wisdom of letting Malfoy in on the construction of her protections, it was clear that he was impressed. He looked around appreciatively at the room, and sat next to Hermione at the big desk, asking questions about her use of runes in magical signature wards.

Harriet got no time to herself until after dinner, when she begged a headache to skive off an evening walk around the lake.

She had no idea what would be in the package from Robin that no one also could see. In fact, she was a little apprehensive. It wasn’t terribly large, but it was heavy for the size. She made herself a cup of tea and settled down in her favourite seat in her room- a big, deep armchair that she could easily curl up in. From the door, it would look like there was nobody in the room, the arms of the chair coming almost to the top of her head. It was like curling up in a big, pillowy box.

A wave of her wand slit open the sellotape holding the box closed perfectly, and she pulled back the lid. Red tissue paper covered all the contents but a letter. He had nice handwriting, she mused; round and neat, but firm and bold, not like her pointy spider-scrawl.

_Harriet,_

_I thought I’d give you some help with the ‘homework’ I set you. I hope you don’t mind, and aren’t offended. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but you deserve to have some fun. Have a relaxing bath, and enjoy._

_Robin_

Harriet frowned in confusion and parted the tissue paper. At first, she couldn’t make sense of the contents, but when she did, she gasped, blood heating her cheeks even though she was alone. First out of the box was a long, cold glass dildo- not particularly large, she thought, having seen real penises, both her own when she was a he, and others in showers and changing rooms. Another little note was stuck to it with a bit of sellotape: _‘I know electrical and battery powered things won’t work at Hogwarts, but the glass should take a vibration charm well_.’ She nervously slid it back into the black velvet bag it came in. Biting her lip, she pulled out the next object, a tub of some kind of gel. The note on this told her that it was lubricant, and better than anything you’d buy in muggle shops. She wasn’t sure she wanted to think about how he knew that. It was dawning on her that Robin could have quite a lot of experience with sex. Even though he was a squib, he still had some magic, which probably meant that he had the same rampant sexual urges during his teens as magical children. It was something to do with the magic heightening hormonal influences, Harriet thought she’d read somewhere. It did mean that most of the students lost their virginity in about third or fourth year. Harriet had once walked in on Ron and Imogen in fourth year. The image had been seared onto her brain for months, making her wish for an obliviate.

Shaking her head to clear thoughts of Robin’s sexual exploits, she reached back into the box, half apprehensive, half excited. Another little bag, this one satin, yielded a pair of smooth, heavy rubbery spheres linked together, which resonated oddly in her hands. There was no note with them, and she couldn’t even begin to fathom their purpose, so she slipped them back into their pouch. The last item in the box was a book, a cheaply bound muggle paperback, full of short stories; not just short stories, but erotica.

There had been a few magazines with scantily clad witches (or indeed, muggle women) secreted around the boys’ dormitory, and Harriet had been party to the poring over of the pages a time or two. She’d heard the groans, the panting breath when one or other of her roommates had forgotten silencing spheres. But this book… it was no lingerie-clad woman on the front, but a man. A large, muscled man, clad in snug leather trousers and a skin-tight white t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. She glanced around her empty room furtively. Even though she knew she was alone, and that no one could disturb her, the fear of being caught still caught her breath in her throat.

The paper was cheap under her fingers, not like the heavy parchment that wizarding books were printed on, and the ink had bled a little into the fibres of the page. It wasn’t the ink, though, that held Harriet transfixed.

There wasn’t much by way of fiction in the Hogwarts library: most fiction was written by Muggles anyway, so what there was was mostly for the use of Muggle Studies students. But Harriet had loved reading the stories available in the primary school library- it had been a refuge from Dudley and his gang.

The stories were stilted, she thought, not believable at all, but somehow, she just kept reading. Her breath came shallower as she went on, but it wasn’t until the third tale in the volume that she was aware of the wetness between her legs. The hand that wasn’t holding the book had drifted down without her even noticing, idly rubbing her crotch through the thick fabric of her jeans. She slammed the book shut and shoved it back into the box guiltily. She needed something to distract herself. Robin might be wrong on the sex toys, but a bath was always nice.

Her bathroom, like the rest of her quarters, had been kitted out by Dobby, and the house elf sometimes had somewhat ostentatious tastes. Therefore, all the taps on the large bath were gold, and most spewed out foamy mounds of scented bubbles, like the prefects’ bathroom. She’d tried them all over the last few weeks, although she’d vowed never to turn some of them on again, most particularly the one which spewed bright yellow bubbles which smelt just like the toilet cleaner Aunt Petunia had used. Tonight, she fancied the pale green foam which reminded her of the calm of the edge of the forbidden forest. She shed her clothes and sank into the water, already deep thanks to the magical plumbing.

The warmth was soothing. She closed her eyes, letting the water cradle her, and let her mind wander. But it kept coming back to one thing… Robin’s package, Robin’s ‘homework’. Why did he want her to, anyway? Whilst the Gryffindor boys had always been open about their personal ministrations, she remembered Catherine, a girl who’d left two years ago. She’d been found in her bed with her hands in her knickers, and she’d been shunned by her year-mates. Only Hermione had asked why it was such a big deal. Harriet could still remember Ginny’s wide-eyed response. “Girls just don’t do that, Hermione,” she’d said vehemently. “Boys don’t like girls who do that. It means that sex isn’t as good, and it can weaken your magic.” Hermione had just frowned and left it.

Harriet hadn’t thought much about it. She’d had no particular interest in what sex was like with a girl anyway, but now she had to wonder. If it made sex worse, why would Robin encourage her to do it? And if it was just that, then why was there such a reaction from the girls as well as the boys when Catherine was caught? What did it matter to them? It was almost as if it was something dirty, something… catching. As if association with her would mean that they, too, were under suspicion. Weakening magic, though, would be a good reason to avoid it, but she didn’t understand why self-pleasure would weaken a girl’s magic, but not a boy’s.

She wondered who she could ask. Discussing it with any of her peers would risk her being further ostracised, and it sounded like the kind of belief that was passed from parent to child, like views on blood purity, that would be hard to find facts on. That left her with books, or teachers.

She wasn’t as familiar with the contents of the library as some of her classmates, but she didn’t remember ever seeing a section on sexuality. The main Hogwarts library was good, but it was focused only on what was taught at the school. She could sneak into the restricted section with the invisibility cloak, but she didn’t even know if that would have what she wanted.

Madam Pomfrey would probably be able to explain it to her, she thought, but for some reason, Harriet was reluctant to discuss such a thing with the kindly witch. She’d mended scrapes and broken bones, but Harriet couldn’t imagine talking about sex with her. McGonagall was out of the question. In fact, oddly, the only teacher he could imagine taking her seriously was Snape. Perhaps discussing anything to do with sex with your boyfriend’s father was stupid, but Severus wasn’t blindly pretending that sex didn’t exist- he’d made her drink the contraceptive, after all. And he was a midwife, she remembered. Besides Madam Pomfrey, he was probably her best bet. Mind made up, she got out of the bath and dried off quickly. Clad in clean clothes, she took a pinch of floo powder and stepped into the fireplace.

It was only as the fireplace spat her out that she worried that she may be interrupting Severus at an inopportune moment, or, worse, that Robin might be visiting his father. But Severus was settled in his armchair with a heavy book resting on his knee, a tumbler of firewhiskey in his hand.

“Good evening, Harriet,” he intoned. “Are you well?”

“Erm, yes, thanks,” Harriet said, now wishing she hadn’t come.

Severus inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Put the kettle on if you would like some tea,” he said. Harriet took that to mean that he didn’t object too strongly to her landing on his hearth rug. She filled the kettle and swung it over the flames. Severus marked his place and put his book aside. “What brings you to see me this evening?” he asked, not unkindly.

Harriet looked at her feet. “Oh, erm, it doesn’t matter.” she stammered, nervous.

“Don’t lie.” Severus said. “Is something wrong? Are you unwell?”

Harriet perched on the edge of the sofa. The sofa where she’d found Robin, waiting for Severus. She took a deep breath. She had to figure this out, she reminded herself. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I just have some questions that I thought you might know the answer to. About… about sex.”

Severus had to work hard to hide his surprise. “Would you not be more comfortable talking to a woman?” he asked gently. “Perhaps Professor McGonagall, or Madam Pomfrey, or indeed, a friend, like Miss Granger?”

Harriet shook her head. “They might laugh at me, or think I’m weird,” she explained. Severus gestured for her to continue. She took a deep breath. “I’m a virgin,” she began. “I never wanted to sleep with girls, and, well, it never seemed as desperate for me as for all the other boys. I just wasn’t as interested. But now I am.”

Severus nodded. “It’s a known effect of the spells that were placed on you,” he explained. “Sexual desires are caused by the changes in hormones as you reach maturity, but in your case, those hormones didn’t match your physical form. I had supposed, though, that peer pressure would have led you to experiment with your sexuality anyway. I suppose that these… questions of yours have something to do with Robin?”

The kettle whistled, and Harriet was glad to have something to do with her hands, and somewhere to look other than the potions master. “Well, yeah, kind of,” Harriet mumbled. Severus had to strain slightly to hear her. “I, erm, I wanted to have sex, but he said no, not until I knew my own body.” He cheeks burned, and she did her best not to look at her professor.

Severus sat back in his chair again, swirling the amber spirit in his glass thoughtfully. He knew it was ridiculous to be relieved that the two hadn’t been to bed together yet, but he was, and he was proud of Robin for thinking with his head instead of his nether regions. “That would seem sensible,” Severus said. “I fail to see the issue?”

Harriet looked steadfastly at the worn pattern on the green rug. “But witches aren’t supposed to, you know,” she blurted lamely.

The crease between Severus’ brows deeped slightly as he tried to catch her meaning. “Are you referring to the notion that a witch of good breeding does not engage in masturbatory activities?”

Harriet nodded glumly. Severus’ chuckle was warm. “That old wive’s tale is ridiculous, Harriet,” he said. “Self-pleasure is healthy, and will not affect your ability to bear children, the strength of your magical power or the chances of a good marriage, and will not cause blindness or mental illness. I assure you, Robin knows this, and he will not think badly of you for having engaged in masturbation. If he does, he has forgotten the lessons he was raised with.”

Harriet finally looked up. “If it’s not true why do people say it?” she asked.

Severus sighed. “Have you read any Aristophanes, Harriet?” he asked. She shook her head, not even sure who Aristophanes was. Severus huffed again. “I have said this before, and I still hold that the study of literature and mathematics at this school is abysmally inadequate. Aristophanes was a Greek playwright. The play I am most concerned with here is _Lysistrata_. It’s a favourite of Robin’s, in fact. In short, the womenfolk of Greece decide to deny the men sex in order to force them into ending the Peloponnesian war. The men cannot concentrate when they are denied sexual relations, and thus do as the women demand.”

Harriet didn’t understand the connection and she said so. “Magical folk are highly sexed,” Severus explained, “and our society is heavily male dominated. Wizards are afraid that if their witches find their pleasure elsewhere, though masturbation, for example, then the witches will cease to engage in intercourse with them. Thus, the rumours spread to ensure that witches are almost always desirous of having sex, assuring the wizard a willing partner. No one can deny that, as a society, we are misogynistic.”

He swallowed the dregs of his drink, the firewhiskey stinging his throat and heating his belly. “My son was raised differently,” he told her. “Robin will respect you as an equal, or he will answer to me. Explore your sexuality to your heart’s content. Just… don’t tell me about it,” he finished with a wince.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Miss Harriet did not want anything to do with that package from Robin! That was tough to write...


	15. Quidditch and Quandries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This one is ever so slightly shorter than usual, but I promise an... interesting chapter for the next one! I'm going for little and often on updates at the moment.

Harriet hovered high above the pitch, keeping one eye out for the glint of the snitch, and one on the game. She grinned as Ginny performed a perfect loop-the-loop to catch the quaffle mid-pass between the Ravenclaw chasers.

The Ravenclaw seeker, Jeanine Hargreaves, was amongst the other players. Harriet had always thought that a bad tactic for a seeker. From above, you could see the whole field. It was true that it might mean you were further from the snitch, but you had a better chance at actually spotting it. And it meant that you could see a bludger coming from a long way off and pull it back towards the beaters.

She looped lazily around the pitch, searching always for that little glint of gold. Below her, Ron blocked a goal with the tail of his broom, sending the quaffle sailing beautifully across the pitch into the hands of his sister. Harriet smiled. Ginny tossed it to Dean Thomas, but he never caught it. A collective gasp ran around the pitch as Jeanine Hargreaves reached out to bat it away towards Ravenclaw’s chasers.

Madam Hooch’s whistle blew sharply as the commentator- a fourth year Harriet didn’t know- gabbled, “And Hargreaves touches the quaffle- that’s a penalty to Gryffindor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one before; the seekers can usually tell the difference between the quaffle and the snitch…”

Jeanine was red faced, gesticulating wildly. Ginny, Dean and Linda lined up for their penalty shots. Just as Linda sent a fantastic curve ball sailing past the Ravenclaw keeper, Harriet spotted the little glint of gold down near the teacher’s stands. She bent forwards, urging her broom faster. Jeanine was much closer, but hopefully, she was too discomfited by her mistake to notice… she was closing in, halfway there now as the little wings of the snitch beat, propelling it lazily upwards.

Jeanine finally noticed Harriet, and followed her line of sight, then jerked her own broom into action. They were neck and neck as they raced towards their prize, but Harriet was just that little bit faster. She inched ahead. With a low grunt of frustration, Jeanine slammed her body to the side, knocking Harriet off course. She was older, though, more experienced. She’d been playing on the school team since she was a first year. She flipped into a perfect barrel roll to absorb the impact, ignoring the shrill of Hooch’s whistle sounding out again. She reached, pushing everything she had from the broom between her knees. Her fingers closed around the cool metal of the snitch, the feathers tickling at the sensitive skin between her thumb and index finger. Jeanine’s hand closed around hers, and the girl cursed and fell back as Harriet held the ball aloft.

“Potter’s got the snitch!” the commentator cried. “Gryffindor wins! Ravenclaw loses twenty points for the foul!”

Jeanine climbed stiffly off her broom and extended a hand to Harriet. “Sorry,” she said. “I got kind of angry. I shouldn’t have tackled you. And I didn’t know that seekers couldn’t touch the quaffle. We have different rules in the States.”

“S’okay,” Harriet said, taking her hand. “It’s all about learning, right?”

Of course, any quidditch win required a party in Gryffindor tower. Harriet stopped off in her room to put her broom away. She showered as quickly as she could, and pulled on jeans and a fitted pink t-shirt. It seemed as good a time as any to remind the Gryffindors that their captain was still a girl.

It was surprising that the raucous joy of the Gryffindor common room didn’t spill out past the portrait of the Fat Lady, but the laughter hit as soon as you opened the portrait. Ron was animatedly dissecting every goal in front of the fireplace to anyone who’d listen, and even Hermione was there, looking slightly deranged at the noise and chatter, but gamely clutching a drink instead of a book. Dean and Seamus, of course, had taken it upon themselves to sneak in alcohol in the form of Veela’s tears, a spirit that didn’t match firewhiskey in its burning qualities, but was still best drunk mixed with something else. Harriet sniffed the glass of pumpkin juice she poured for herself suspiciously before taking a sip, making sure it was the non-alcholic version.

Ginny was doing the same with the pitcher next to her. “Here. This one seems unadulterated,” Harriet said, offering it to the redhead. As a rule, the serious Quidditch players didn’t drink before their twenties- wizarding alcohol could affect reflexes which were crucial. For someone like Ginny, a slight slowdown in her quicksilver reactions could cost her a career. She took the pitcher wordlessly and gave it an experimental sniff, not willing to trust it to Harriet’s say-so.

“Well played, today,” Harriet continued. “That first goal was phenomenal.”

“I know,” Ginny said flatly, pouring out a drink. “I don’t need you to tell me that, Potter.” She turned away, and went to sit beside Hermione. Harriet couldn’t help a mental sigh- She wished that she could just be friends with Ginny again. At least her changes hadn’t affected her friendship with Hermione, though. Harriet wandered over to sit with Ron and his gaggle of boys, from Dean and Seamus down to wide-eyed Dennis Creevey.

“...and then when their seeker hit the Quaffle!” Seamus said, and took a glug of his undoubtedly tampered-with pumpkin juice.

Harriet flopped into a giant beanbag. “She didn’t know she wasn’t allowed to,” she explained.

“What?” Dean demanded hotly. “What’s the point if the seeker can double as a chaser?”

Harriet shrugged. “Apparently the rules are different where she’s from. You’d have thought Belby might have mentioned it to her, though.” She reached for a handful of the crisps in the bowl on Ron’s knee grinning as she grabbed them before he could snatch the bowl away. She popped one in her mouth.

“She tackled you, too, though,” Dean pressed on. “She’s a menace!”

Harriet shrugged. It was true that Jeanine was bigger than most seekers, and certainly bigger than her, but there hadn’t been much malice in her tackle. She was perhaps better served as a chaser or beater, but Harriet wasn’t about to complain about something that made it easier for her team to win. Either way, Harriet thought she was certainly the better player, and the tackle hadn’t cost her the win.

The party went on through dinner, with a gaggle of younger students dispatched to fetch more snacks from the kitchens. McGonagall showed up just after the meal and scouted around for alcohol or other contraband (Weasley’s wheezes products were commonplace at gatherings such as these) but didn’t find any, thanks to some quick banishing of bottles back to trunks. Instead, she had to content herself to congratulating the team on the win.

It was only an hour off curfew when Harriet finally extricated herself from post-match dissections and predictions for the season. Hermione had vanished some time ago to begin head girl patrols, and even Ron was yawning. Like Harriet, he was keenly aware that this was their last quidditch season at school: unless either of them went on to become professionals (a possibility for Harriet, but less of an option for Ron), and he was loath to let the very first match go without fanfare. They wouldn’t play again until after Christmas, instead taking to the stands to watch Slytherin take on Hufflepuff next.

The route from the tower down to her rooms took her close to the library. She shouldn’t have been surprised to run into Draco Malfoy. Quite literally. He seemed to be in the library every time she was of late.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, bending to help him gather his stack of parchment. He was paler than usual, she realised, his face drawn and tight. He looked… worried. Not even Hermione was that worried about NEWTs yet.

“Not a problem,” Malfoy said smoothly, accepting the stack of notes back from her. “Please, forgive me, I should have paid attention. My mind was… elsewhere.”

Harriet lifted a shoulder. “No big deal,” she assured him.

She turned to go, but he touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Well done on the game today,” he said.

“Erm, thanks…” It wasn’t like Malfoy to be pleased at Gryffindor winning a match. “It was a good one.”

Malfoy nodded. “May I walk you back to your rooms?” he asked. “It’s getting late, and I would be unable to forgive myself if something were to happen on your way.”

Did Malfoy know something she didn’t, she wondered? What on earth could possibly happen at Hogwarts? “I’m fine. Thanks, though,” she said, turning away.

He strode alongside her. “Please. It’s my place as a gentleman. My father would never forgive me if he learnt that I was impolite to a lady. I know that there was some revelry in Slytherin tonight, a birthday party. Your rooms lie between the common room and the kitchens. I would hate for an inebriated Slytherin to waylay you.”

She rather thought that an un-inebriated one was getting in her way, but it didn’t seem worthwhile to argue. He knew where her room was, anyway, so there was no harm in it. She agreed.

Malfoy struck up conversation on the way. “How are you finding the change in your body?” he asked lightly. “It must have been quite difficult to come to terms with.”

“I’m, erm, getting used to it,” she replied. She doubted Malfoy was referring to, or at all interested in the kind of task that Robin had set her, but his words brought back the knowledge that the box was still sitting in her room.

Malfoy nodded. “Quite an unusual position to be in,” he agreed. “I must say, you’ve turned out as a pretty girl. You must have suitors falling at your feet.”

“No, not really,” Harriet replied shortly. She wasn’t sure that she liked this conversation- along with Robin’s present, it was reminding her of the couple of dreams she’d had featuring Malfoy. She couldn’t deny that she found him physically attractive, with his ice-prince good looks and charm, but she knew his personality all too well. She couldn’t bring herself to fully trust the newly ‘nice’ Malfoy. He’d never be as kind and warm as Robin, she thought.

“I’m surprised,” Malfoy said. “You always were pretty, even as a boy. Now, you’re lovely. Positively elfin, and beautiful.” Harriet said nothing; she couldn’t think of a reasonable reaction. They were approaching the turn to her portrait-door.

“Well, goodnight,” she said, pausing at the turning. Malfoy peered down the corridor and shook his head, gesturing for her to go on.

She suppressed a sigh as Malfoy followed her the fifty yards to her door. She got out her wand to let herself in, wishing that Malfoy wasn’t standing so close. She didn’t think he was likely to try to force his way in; if he wanted to do her harm, he’d had plenty of opportunity on the walk down.

His hand brushed her shoulder. “Perhaps,” he asked, his eyes bright, “you might grace me with a goodnight kiss?”

Harriet’s heart jumped in her chest. She stared at him in silence for a few seconds. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for that, Malfoy,” she finally worked out of her tight throat.

He smiled. “Please, call me Draco. We’ve known each other since we were eleven years old, don’t you think that counts as a long enough acquaintance?”

“You’ve been an arse for most of that time,” Harriet pointed out.

Draco spread his hands in surrender. “I admit, I was. But I’ve grown up, seen what a idiot I truly was.” He reached out to cup her cheek, and Harriet froze, completely unsure of what to do. He skin tingled, but his touch lacked that tenderness when Robin had made much the same gesture. His hands were thin and hard, like the rest of him. “You must be desperate by now,” he opined, speaking low. “Unless you’re fucking Weasley, that is.”

She gasped in shock and indignation. He said it so matter-of-factly: he gave no hint that he disapproved of the notion of her sleeping with someone. He leaned down to kiss her, but she was faster. She ducked out from under his arm. “I’m not interested, Malfoy!” she said hotly.

He gave a thin-lipped grin. “So you are fucking Weasley, then.” he deduced.

“I’m not ‘fucking’ anybody!”

Malfoy shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe that, Harriet. You’d be climbing the walls in desperation by now. Unless you’re frigid of course. Well, you know where to find me when it all gets too much. There’s no need to descend into hysteria, and you will, you know, without sex.” He smiled again, the corners of his eyes even lifting a little this time. “Goodnight, Harriet.”

She leaned back against the wall and breathed a small sigh of relief when he rounded the corner. She couldn’t help running over everything in her head as she readied herself for bed though, washing the sweat from her unruly hair. Was Malfoy right? Was she frigid? She shivered at the word, despite the warmth of the water raining down on her head and back. Was that why she didn’t know what to do with Robin’s gifts?

She paused by the box as she passed the armchair on the way to bed, but couldn’t bring herself to take the things out again. She was tired, she reasoned. Tomorrow night, she’d try.


	16. Extracurriculars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, lovely readers, here's a start on earning my rating. You have been warned :)

“Let us pretend,” Severus said, “that it is crucial that I do not know that Gryffindor won the match on Sunday. Make me believe that Ravenclaw took the victory.”

Harriet nodded, steeling herself for the onslaught of the legilimency attack. It still jolted her, every time. This occasion was no different. She carefully tried to school her features, playing a disjointed memory of Sunday’s game in her head. She tried her best to weave in the sounds, the feel of the air moving as she flew. In this false memory, though, Jeanine took the snitch, and the match. It was hard; the crackle of the fire distracted her, and the overbearing weight of Severus’ mind bearing down on hers was almost painful.

Severus broke magical contact, and Harriet blinked. It felt like it had been mere seconds, but the clock on the mantel told her that almost ten minutes had passed. She let out a deep breath in relief at her mind no longer feeling as if it was being inexorably pressed beneath a load of bricks. “You forgot to add in the Gryffindor reaction after the match.” Severus said. “Remember that a memory can never exist in isolation: it must join to others. With that said, however, well done. You’ve improved so much this year. I hadn’t thought it possible, given your pathetic performances in previous years, but I think we’re getting there. We can cut the lessons down to once a week, I think. Just Mondays will be sufficient.”

Harriet couldn’t help grinning widely. Whilst Severus was no nicer to her in Potions lessons, the praise in private almost made up for it. She was getting more and more used to kind Severus. He leaned back in his chair, setting his wand aside, and closed his eyes for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He opened them again, and shook his head slightly to assuage her concern. “It’s nothing. Legilimency can be as tiring as occlumency,” he told her, “and I have been using my magic rather more than usual of late. There have been other… obligations placed on me.”

She chewed on her lip. She wanted to ask, but she doubted he would tell her, so she just nodded. “Can I help?” she wanted to know.

He smiled indulgently. “No, child, but thank you.” He turned his head to the fireplace as it flared the bright green of floo powder. “Ah, I should have known to expect a visit. I was never blessed with so much attention from my offspring prior to this year.” He gave a wry smile as Robin dusted himself off, and held up a hand when his son greeted him. “I am under no delusions that you are here to visit me, boy,” he assured Robin. “Go on, both of you.”

Harriet grinned and bounded up from her seat, her smile wide and her heart leaping as Robin dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, and pushed her towards the floo.

Just before she tossed the powder into the hearth to go back through to her room, Severus’ hand shot out to grasp the top of Robin’s arm. “Be kind,” he beseeched his son, their coal-dark eyes meeting. Robin nodded seriously, and followed her through the floo.

Almost immediately, he spotted the box by the armchair, the red tissue paper peeking out of the top. He grinned. “Did you enjoy my present?” he asked.

Harriet flushed pink. He was beside her in a moment, his hands cupping her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did I embarrass you?”

She bit her lip. “I… didn’t use them,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t really know how.”

He frowned and towed her towards the sofa, settling her down next to him. “Do you actually feel desire?” he asked quietly. “For me, for anyone?”

“I do!” she assured him. She looked down at the lap, where he held her hands. “More than ever, in fact,” she admitted quietly. “But I had some… reservations. I think I got them sorted out, but I still don’t really know where to start.”

He’d rested his head atop hers. “Would you like me to help you?”

She tipped her head up to look at him, resulting in a kiss to her forehead on the way. “How?” she asked.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you.” He took her by the hand and pulled her towards the four-poster, taking the box he’d sent her with them. He settled back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Take off your tights and knickers,” he instructed quietly, “but leave your skirt on if you’d like.” Harriet’s fingers trembled as she hooked the undergarments off her feet and dropped them into the laundry basket by the bed for the house elves. She stood by the side of the bed, unsure. He patted the bed in front of him, splaying his legs so she could crawl between them and settle back against his chest. His long legs bracketed hers, leaving her feeling cocooned. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, and the warm air tickled her ear when he tucked her hair back. “Are you okay?” he asked in a low murmur.

“I… I think so,” she replied. Her heart was hammering in her chest.

He kissed her, just below her earlobe, licking slightly at the sensitive flesh there. “Are you sure you’re happy to do this?”

“Yeah. I want to,” she assured him. “I… just don’t know how.”

“That’s okay,” he responded. He pulled a light blanket over their legs, so they were covered from the waist down. “Would you like me to guide you in what to do, or would you like me to show you?”

“Show me, please?”

His silky hair bobbed against her collarbone when he nodded. He turned her face up to the side so he could kiss her, covering her mouth with his own. He nipped lightly at her bottom lip, drawing a moan from her. “I had no intentions of doing this so soon,” he breathed when they broke the kiss. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, Harriet, but it’s a crime that you don’t know how to pleasure yourself.” He kissed her on the mouth again, then caressed the side of her face. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, his voice not much more than a whisper and a rumble in his chest. “Tell me if I hurt you, or you want to stop.”

She nodded, and did as he instructed, shutting out the soft candlelight. Being so close to him was already making her feel like her skin was a thousand times more sensitive than usual. His left hand moved down her body to cradle a breast under the blouse just as his right cradled her cheek. His thumb grazed across her nipple through the thin fabric of the blouse and her bra, and she gasped, the alien sensation of her nipple rising shooting straight down to between her legs. “Good girl,” he crooned, his lips moving against her ear as he spoke. His voice was low, gentle and liquid. Deftly, his fingers flicked the buttons of her blouse open and trailed lightly across the skin just above the cups of the bra. She shivered, although not from cold. His arm wrapped around her, and a solitary finger dipped below the fabric to brush her hardened nipple. She gasped and arched upwards. “Oh, you like that, do you?” he asked with a small smile in his voice. He did it again, nipping at the tender skin of her neck at the same time.

Then his hand moved on, journeying down her stomach and beneath the blanket. She raised her hips as he tugged her skirt up to give him access. When she settled again, she was suddenly aware of the hardened bump against her lower back. Robin was enjoying this too. The thought made her feel better, but also a little guilty: she wasn’t doing anything for his pleasure.

Before she could protest about the fact though, her breath was stolen by a gasp as she felt his hand rest high on her inner thigh. Another inch, and he’d be touching her there. “All okay?” he asked silkily.

“Yes,” she breathed. Robin coaxed her legs a few inches apart with light touches, and his fingers inched up until he was rubbing gently at the junction of her thigh and hip. She’d never realised that the skin there was so sensitive. He was able to elicit another gasp and arch from her, which he rewarded with a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he warned softly, and the declaration sent a pulse of desire down into her again. He moved his hand until his palm rested on her pubic mound, and then, so slowly, he set his fingers down across her lips, drawing a sharp gasp from her at the touch. “You’re wet,” he murmured in her ear, with a melted-caramel voice. “Good girl.”

Her lip found its way between her teeth again when he splayed his fingers, opening her. A light swipe of a finger, bottom to top, elicited a groan and a shudder. “Give me your hand,” he commanded softly, bringing his own back above the blanket to grasp it. He pulled it down, resting his fingers atop her smaller ones. She let out a breath when he touched her hand to her sodden pussy.

“These are your outer labia,” he lectured in his honey soft tones, running her fingers around the fleshy outside lips. “They spread apart when you’re aroused. Here are the inner pair.” He guided her hand to the folds of skin, then skimmed them downwards. “This is the opening to your vagina.” He curled his fingers around hers, and she felt just the tip of one breach the opening, entering not even a quarter of an inch. Her muscles clenched instinctively, and he chuckled. He grasped her fingers again, dragging them up. “This is your clitoris,” he explained. “It’s the female version of a penis, and very sensitive.” The pad of his index finger swept across it and she moaned, pushing her head back into his shoulder. “That’s it, good girl,” he praised, letting her hand fall to rest against her thigh. His finger dipped down again, gathering moisture from around her entrance and pulling it up. He captured her clit between his index and middle fingers and moved them back and forth, sliding her heated flesh between his fingers. She was panting now, completely given over the sensations of someone else touching her. He was still whispering praise into her ear as he circled the sensitive little button. She gave a deep, guttural moan when he slid a finger into her, curling it up behind her pubic bone, his palm still resting against her sodden exterior.

The hand that had curled around her chest, holding her tight to him moved away, and she heard the clink of the glass dildo that he’d put on the bedside table. “Is it okay if I use the toy on you?” he checked.

“Whatever you want,” Harriet breathed back. His cheek moved against hers as he smiled. She didn’t care, so long as he would keep touching her.

The glass was cold against her thigh when he touched it there, and she jumped a little. He soothed with nonsense noises, rolling it up towards her needy pussy. It was hard and smooth against her as he swirled it in her juices before very, very slowly, pushing it against her opening. Instinctively, she raised her hips and arched upwards, letting him slide the invader into her in a long glide. “Well done.” His voice caressed her ear. His voice was a bit rougher now, coloured with desire. He wished that it was himself that he was sliding into her, but he knew that she wasn’t ready. He pumped the narrow glass shaft into her a couple of times.

“I need your help, sweetheart,” he said. “Can you cast a vibration charm on the dildo, just a little one? I want to make your first orgasm a good one.”

She nodded blearily, and reached for her wand, lying on the bed next to them. Her inner muscles grasped at the smooth glass probe when he pulled it all the way out and brought it up for her to cast the spell. It gleamed wetly in the candlelight as she tapped it. It immediately began to shake in his hand, and he pulled her firmly back against his chest.

He laid it against her entrance again, but didn’t push it in this time, just circled with it, slipping it across her wet flesh. She groaned, wanting more, but not entirely sure what. Gradually, he travelled it up her pussy until it rested just beneath her clit, pressing upwards. She grunted at the new sensation, flexing her hips up. “That’s it,” he murmured, sliding the smoothness over her bud. “Come for me, Harriet.” The glass had warmed, but it was frictionless as he pressed it against her. She screwed her eyes closed tighter, tension building in her abdomen, leaving her feeling strangely empty.

Her inner muscles clenched, grasping for something that wasn’t there. Her hand gripped at the blanket. Wordlessly, he slid his other hand down her body, burying a finger into her quivering channel. Another few passes of the vibrating dildo, and a press upwards of his buried finger, and she clenched down hard, crying out as she spasmed. Her whole pelvis seemed to seize up, and she tossed her head to the side even as her hips bucked up.

He set the dildo to the side, still buzzing faintly, and laid his hand flat against her pussy, rubbing gently with his palm as she shook with her climax. “Well done,” he praised softly. “Good girl.”

Two minutes later, she was finally regaining her breath as he held her tight to him. He’d turned her onto her side so he could see her face, pillowing her cheek against his chest. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked, although she thought that that should have been a rhetorical question. She nodded sleepily, reaching out to end the vibration charm on the dildo.

She smiled and nodded against his shoulder, reaching up to stroke on hand across his cheek. “What do you need me to do for you?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he told her quietly, petting her hair. “That was for you, dearest.” He shifted beneath her. “May I use your bathroom?”

“Mmhmm,” Harriet mumbled, gesturing towards the door to the bathroom. Robin slipped from beneath her, letting her sink back onto the soft bed, still in a post-orgasmic haze.He shut the heavy Hogwarts door behind him, and turned to lean his head against the cool tile. His hair swung forward to cut out the light from the room. His hand fumbled down for the zip of his jeans, pulling out his heavy cock with a hiss. He could still feel the pressure of her lithe body against his, still hear her gasps and moans reverberating in his head.

The breath puffed hot and fast from him as he wrapped his hand around himself and stroked, then jerked faster, scrabbling behind him for a towel to catch the explosion that was building, tightening his balls and pulling his flesh taut. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together keep from crying out as he came, spurting into the towel. He rested his head against the wall again with a deep sigh, tossing the towel into the laundry basket. It had been harder than he could have imagined, keeping control of himself as she’d writhed against him. He was determined to do right by her though, determined not to take advantage or scare her away. She was special; he didn’t know why, but from the first time he’d seen her in the staffroom of the cafe, he’d wanted to protect her.

He tucked his deflating cock away and washed his hands, regarding himself in the mirror above the sink. He wondered if she saw his father when she looked at him: the same pale skin, though slightly flushed with excitement now, the dark, hooded eyes and silken waterfall of hair, though his wasn’t clumped with potions fumes, and framed a less angular face. He wondered if he should cut his hair, to minimise the similarity, but every time he considered it, he never quite got around to it. No matter how hated Severus Snape was to the majority of the magical population, he was Robin’s connection to the wizarding world, and Robin clung to the part of himself that belonged to that spectacular place.

Harriet had sat up on the bed in his absence, her knees drawn up and tucked beneath her chin. A tear track glistened against her cheek. “What is it?” he asked softly, settling on the bed in front of her, a hand on her arm.

She looked up beseechingly. “Do you hate me?” she asked.

“No. Why would I hate you?”

“Because… because I’m ignorant. Because I don’t know what I’m doing. Other girls; they’ve been having sex for years, they know what to do. You should have someone who knows what she’s doing. Not someone like me… frigid.”

Robin pushed a hand through his hair in frustration. He’d wanted to help her, and instead, she was crying. “You’re not frigid,” he explained gently. “You seemed to enjoy that, at least, so you’re not frigid. Did you know that in the muggle world, female innocence is prized?” he asked. “Historically, a virgin woman had far more worth than one who was not. The wizards… well, between contraceptive potions and no fear of sexually transmitted diseases, promiscuity is the norm. But I’m not exactly a wizard, am I?”

Harriet looked up at him, her eyes still bright with tears. “So… you still want me?” she asked shakily.

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you, silly girl,” he said with a smile. “I’ve slept with a lot of girls- I started young- but I’ve never met anyone like you.” He kissed away the tear that had caught by her nose, tasting the salt on his lips. “I don’t mind that you don’t know much about sex; I understand that. But I’m going to imagine that you know better than most women what to do to please a man. You had the equipment not so long ago, after all.”

She couldn’t help a small grin at that one. He was right, she supposed. “I promised that we’d go slowly, and we will,” he continued. “I’m not going to make love to you just because I’ve shown you how to touch yourself. You get to make that choice for yourself.”

She nodded, and bit her lip. “Come on,” he said, standing and holding out a hand for her. “Let’s go and cuddle on the sofa, and we can talk about what we’ve done in the last few days. Didn’t you have a quidditch match? I’ve always wanted to watch a quidditch match…”

She laughed, the last of her tears dried from her cheeks, and let him tow her over to the bright fire. He stayed with her until she was content, warm and sleepy, ready to fall into bed and sleep off the last of the comfortable lethargy from his ministrations.


	17. Who needs him anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to your regularly scheduled plot after the last chapter's smutty divergence! Thanks for the lovely comments- they really do keep me writing!

Neville let out a cry of frustration and pain as, once again, his shield fizzled as Seamus’s stinging hex hit it. His face and arms were blotchy with past hexes, as if he’d stumbled into a large patch of nettles. Lupin put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “How about we work on this somewhere quieter?” he suggested kindly. He stopped the rest of the defence club and sent them away.

Harriet, though, stayed behind. Neville hadn’t seemed to enjoy defence club much, and Harriet felt guilty for persuading him to come along. “Everything alright, Harriet?” Lupin asked when she was the last one left, other than Neville, who was red faced and looking longingly at the door.

“Yeah… I just wondered if I could help?” Harriet replied. “Maybe you need someone for Neville to practice on, or…”

“Thank you, Harriet, but I think Neville and I may just have a little chat,” Lupin said. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but it won’t be necessary tonight.” He smiled genially, and waved Harriet towards the door. She tried to get Neville to look at her, but he stared resolutely at the floor instead. Harriet had no choice but to go; she jogged to catch up to Ron and Hermione.

Not quite an hour later, a much happier Neville tumbled through the portrait hole. “All okay, Neville?” Harriet called, almost singeing a finger in her distraction: exploding snap was not a game to be distracted from, especially not when playing hyper-competitive Ron. He folded himself into a chair: Neville had shot up about four inches since the start of the summer, and he was still getting used to his height.

“Yeah, thanks,” Neville said. “Professor Lupin was telling me about a book he’d read about plants being used for defence- things like devil’s snare and vampire briars mixed with quick-growth potions. It was really interesting.”

“That’s good,” Harriet encouraged, losing the game with good humour. Ron grinned widely- he usually won anyway, so Harriet wasn’t sure it deserved the air punch he gave. “After all, it’s not just about firing off the most powerful spell. It’s about creative thinking.”

Neville nodded. “I don’t think Dumbledore’s going to be that happy, though,” he admitted. “I don’t think he’s interested in quick growing plants. He wants me to be able to do spells that can kill people.”

Ron blinked in surprise. “You don’t seem like the killing people type,” he said. “Why does Dumbledore want you to kill people?”

Neville sounded dejected when he answered; his smiles had faded. “To kill Death Eaters, I suppose. He asked if I wanted to get revenge for what happened to my parents.”

That wasn’t what Dumbledore really wanted, Harriet was sure. He was trying to groom Neville to be Voldemort’s killer, to fulfill the prophecy. “Who cares what Dumbledore wants,” she said sharply. “Do what you want, Neville. What’s done is done. Killing Death Eaters won’t bring your parents back, so you don’t have to fight them if you don’t want to.”

“Might make him feel better, though, mate,” Ron pointed out.

Harriet scoffed. “Come on, Ron. Do you really think that killing people can make you feel better? Do you think anyone ever gets over the guilt of killing another human? Would you happily cast the killing curse and feel good about it? Haven’t you grown up at all? It doesn’t change anything, you know. Killing Death Eaters won’t bring Neville’s parent’s back. It won’t bring Sirius back. It just makes a cycle of killing and hurt and grudges.”

Ron looked at her with eyes practically bulging. “What’s got into you?” he asked. “They’re Death Eaters! They asked for it!”

They were beginning to draw stares, and the common room was falling slowly silent. Harriet shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I don’t care what they’ve done, I don’t want to kill them,” she said. “Killing is never an easy option. That’s what the wizengamot and trials are for, it’s for them to decide who gets to live and who gets to die, not me.”

Whispers were rising around the room. Eventually, one voice called out loud enough for Harriet to hear. “You saying that you’re on the Death Eater’s side, Potter? Why not go to Slytherin? That’s where Death Eaters belong, and if you’re not against them, you’re with them.”

Harriet stood and turned to face Ritchie Coote. “Don’t you see?” she asked. “If you just want to put all of them to death, you’re no better than they are, wanting to kill people because they had muggle parents.”

Coote sniffed and turned away. “All Death Eaters deserve to die.”

Harriet looked at Ron and Neville for support. Neville, though, was gone, vanishing up the stairs to the dormitories. Ron held up his hands. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I agree with him. I’d like to avada the likes of Lucius Malfoy a few times over.”

“Ron, you wouldn’t,” Harriet said beseechingly. “If you had him at wandpoint, you wouldn’t be able to do it.”

Ron squinted at her, as though he was waiting for her to morph into some kind of monster. “Yeah, I would. Is this some kind of girl thing? You don’t want to kill anything? Because that’s gonna be a bit of an issue when you end up face to face with you-know-who. You on the rag, or coming down with hysteria or something?”

Harriet blinked at him, trying to process what he’d just said. A girl thing? How could he possibly think that her gender changed anything? She just had no desire to judge who should die in the split seconds of battle. “I’m still the same person,” she said. “I’m still Hary, just with a different name and longer hair and wearing a different uniform.”

Ron shrugged. “You’d have been all for getting rid of a few Death Eaters before,” he replied, and turned in his chair so his back was to her. Harriet gasped in shock and hurt. She was mortified to feel tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.She turned to go through the portrait and back out into the main part of the school. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or angry that none of the Gryffindors present were looking at her, standing up for her. She gulped in a lungful of the cool castle air and started off towards her rooms.

“Everything alright, Harriet?” Lupin’s voice called out as she passed his office on the second floor. She hadn’t even noticed that his door was open. He stood from his desk and sheaf of marking to approach the door. “I hope you weren’t offended, earlier, with Neville.”

Harriet hadn’t expected kindness to set off her tears. The sob choked in her throat as she tried to swallow it down. Lupin took one look at her and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, ushering her into his office. He guided her to a chair by the fireplace and sat down opposite her, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. He took a bar of chocolate from the table and broke off a row for Harriet. She took it with a nod of thanks, still trembling slightly with the effort of keeping the tears in. The low hissing of a runespoor in a large tank on Lupin’s sideboard was too low for Harriet to try to make out the words of the snake-like creature.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” Lupin told her softly.

Harriet shook her head. “They all think I’m just some pathetic girl anyway,” she choked out.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a girl,” Lupin said. “You are a girl; you’ve always been a girl. It doesn’t matter what your gender is, it matters that you’ve a good, kind, intelligent person, who looks out for her friends and does good in the world.”

Harriet looked up from her nibbled chocolate, meeting Lupin’s eyes. “Would you kill a Death Eater if you had the chance?” she asked.

Lupin gave the question some consideration. “That depends,” he replied eventually. “If they were threatening the life of someone I loved, I would. That doesn’t go for just Death Eaters, that’s everyone. In self defence or in defence of others, it’s right to use whatever force necessary to end the situation. If that means killing them before they kill me, so be it. But if I had a Death Eater wandless before me? I wouldn’t kill. You should always use the least force that will guarantee your aims.”

Harriet nodded. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “I don’t want to kill people just for the sake of it. It’s not up to me to decide if they should live or die- I’m not a judge, I’m just a teenager. I shouldn’t have to be the wizarding world’s executioner. But now that’s just one more reason for everyone to hate me. Ron thinks I’ve gone soft because I’m a girl.”

“Oh, Harriet,” Lupin said with a frown. “I had hoped that the other students had stopped bothering you.”

Harriet shrugged. “I guess a lot of them got bored,” she replied. “And Ginny threatened Lavender, because she didn’t want me in the hospital wing before the quidditch match. But mostly, everyone treats me like some stranger who took away Harry. And I’ve heard more than one person wonder if I’m gay or straight now that I’m a girl, even though I haven’t talked about being with anyone, boy or girl. I try not to let it bother me, but…”

“...But it still hurts. I think I know how you feel. I’m a werewolf, after all.”

“Yeah, I suppose you do,” Harriet said with a little grin, her heart a little lighter. If Lupin had managed, so could she. “I still just wish that people would just get over it.”

Lupin patted her knee. “Most will. Some people will always view you with suspicion, because you’re outside their knowledge of the world. But there will always be people who love you, Harriet. You can always turn to us when you need to.” He paused for a moment, and gave a smile. “Your mother would be proud of you, you know, and your father, though he’d be a little angry, I think. And Sirius would have loved you just the same.”

“Thanks,” Harriet said. “It… it kind of means a lot. You knew them better than anyone else I know, so if you don’t mind what I am… well, it doesn’t matter so much what other people think. You’re kind of my family.”

Lupin blinked a few times, his cheeks going pink. “I’m honoured that you think of me that way,” he told the girl, leaning over to hug her loosely. “And you can always come to me, even if it’s just for a friendly ear. I know I’m your teacher, but I’d like to be your friend as well.”

Harriet’s good mood thanks to Lupin lasted until breakfast the next morning, when Ron shuffled a little to the left when Harriet sat next to him. Not enough to leave room for a whole other person, but enough to suggest that he thought Harriet might be in some way contagious. Having no desire for a confrontation in the great hall, she simply ignored it and reached for the platter of bacon. Hermione, her nose in her Ancient Runes textbook, didn’t notice a thing, and Neville, their sometimes-meal companion, was as careful as Ron not to look at her. Just when she’d thought that perhaps everything could be a little more normal.

Ron immediately partnered with Neville in herbology to begin a study of the effects of different concentrations of various silencing potions when watering mandrake roots during growth. That left Harriet with Hermione, who wasn’t saying anything, but had shot Ron a strange look when he’d lunged to pair up with Neville. She set to writing down their concentrations of potions to water magically cleansed of any other impurities whilst Harriet mixed the amounts together, careful not to over-or-under-measure by a single drop. She felt mildly sorry for the rats they’d be testing the effects of the mandrakes on in three week’s time.

“Okay, what’s going on with Ron?” Hermione finally whispered an hour into the lesson, when Ron had ignored a request from Harry to pass the water beaker. Neville had passed it over sheepishly.

“I said I didn’t want to kill Death Eaters for the sake of it,” Harriet whispered back. Hermione’s eyebrows arched down into a frown, but Harriet wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or Ron. Hermione asked for the next beaker of potion and water without further comment.

Ron continued to ignore Harriet for the rest of the day. By the time potions had rolled around, she wasn’t even surprised that he had moved to a different bench, next to Imogen. Hermione sat beside Harriet without comment.

At the end of the lesson, when all the samples of the potions had been bottled and left for marking (Ron’s was a murky khaki colour instead of clear, Harriet noted with an uncharacteristic jolt of schadenfreude), Snape waved his wand at the blackboard, erasing all trace of his instructions for the lesson. “Homework,” he said with a sneer. “Because I am kind, you have a full week to complete this assignment. I expect no less than two rolls of parchment comparing and contrasting each of these brews. I expect a thorough understanding on the differences between them, and the correct usage and dosage of each, along with notes on their efficacy. At least I can rest assured that I am doing my utmost to aid my future sanity.” He waved his wand again, and a list of eight different potions appeared. Along with the rest of the class, Harriet began scribbling them down. All were unfamiliar to her, and she’d read the next two chapters of their potions textbook.

Hermione’s bushy head was down as she copied out the list, but Harriet had heard the intake of breath from her when the writing had first appeared. She was sure that Hermione knew what the potions were, and not encouraged when the other witch came up with a pink tinge to her cheeks.

Harriet blushed too when she finally located information about some of the potions in the library. Each and every one was a contraceptive potion, and they most certainly weren't on the curriculum for Hogwarts. She couldn’t shake the notion that this was for her benefit.

Hermione dumped a thick tome on the table beside Harriet. She hadn’t even known that she’d been in the library; assuming the other girl to be off on rounds or prefect duties. Sometimes it felt like she didn’t see much of Hermione anymore, which made Ron’s silence even more grating. How long would it be until she started going to Malfoy for friendship, she wondered?

“I can’t believe he’s given us this potion to research,” Hermione huffed. She laid her finger against a passage. Harriet skim read it. “Honestly, a contraceptive often used for the deflowering of virgins? What is professor Snape thinking?”

Harriet couldn’t quite suppress the shiver that shiver that ran down her back when she read that this particular potion tasted strongly acidic and reminiscent of a bitter lemon. This really was aimed at her. “I mean,” Hermione continued, “It’s not like any of us will actually need it. If he were teaching second years, yeah, but seventh? It’s kind of late for that.” Hermione flopped down into a chair in the quiet corner of the library.

“Erm, yeah,” Harriet said. “I suppose so.”

Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh goodness, Harriet, I didn’t think… is it because of you? Because if you haven’t already slept with someone, well, you kind of still have your virginity, because you’re female now?”

Harriet shrugged her shoulders, trying to cover up her discomfort. “Maybe. I don’t think Snape really thinks about me that much, though. He probably just wanted to make us all really uncomfortable. And like he said, teaching us to make contraceptives might mean less kids for him to teach in the future. Maybe it was aimed at Ron- there’s one here that’s taken by males.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced. “Maybe,” she hedged. “But Snape helped you back in the summer. And he’s been giving you occlumency lessons. He’s nicer to you in lessons now- he doesn’t take quite as many points as he used to, and he hasn’t vanished a single one of your potions since you almost blew the classroom up in the first lesson. And you’re kind of dating his...”

Hermione’s voice was low, but Harriet shushed her violently before she could finish her sentence. “Don’t talk about that where people can hear, Hermione!” she reprimanded.

Hermione looked thoroughly cowed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But it’s true. I reckon he cares about you more than you might think.”

“Maybe,” Harriet said. “Look, Hermione, I’m off to bed. I’ve had enough work for tonight.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell her friend that she was intending to practice her vibration charms, in spite of Severus’ views on her contraceptive needs.

 

 


	18. A narrow escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any eagle-eyed amongst you who also read at ff.net, I've started dual-posting there, mostly because I was curious about the spread of readers, and the stats over at ff.net are interesting. I'm obviously still going to post here, and since I'm a little worried about falling foul of their ratings system, this will certainly be the 'definitive' Becoming Harriet, whereas they may get something a bit... cut down later on.
> 
> I'm also leaving a warning here... this chapter deals with sexual assault/attempted rape. Unfortunately not everyone is as nice as Robin, and my version of the magical world has little respect for women.
> 
> I look forward to your views on this chapter, as always!

“Stop that! Get off me!”

Harriet was sure that was Ginny’s voice. Why was Ginny down the corridor that housed the door to Harriet’s room? Holding her wand out, careful of whatever, or whoever it was that had made Ginny sound so annoyed, she crept towards the corner. Strange, she thought, there was no sound of a scuffle. Perhaps it was some kind of romantic encounter? If so, she was ready to retreat and leave them to it. She couldn’t really begrudge Ginny a lover.

There was no one around the corner. She shook her head, feeling silly. Had she imagined it all? She walked down to the storeroom and disused classroom at the end of the corridor, just to check.

The classroom was empty other than the swirling dust motes and a few burnt out firecrackers, remnants either of Peeves or a long-forgotten product test from the Weasley twins. The storeroom door creaked as she pushed it open. “ _Lumos_ ” she whispered, a moment before her lighted wand hit the floor. Her scream choked off as a hard hand gripped across her mouth.

“Quiet,” Blaise Zabini hissed. “It’s not as if anyone would hear you from here, so you may as well spare my ears.”

If it was possible, Harriet stiffened even more. She was shut in a storeroom with a Slytherin, the only light her dropped wand. Her mind froze. Zabini hissed into her ear, his arms locked tight around her. “Not so high and mighty are you now, eh, Potter? No more Golden Boy, just a stupid little slut. Well, you should know what happens to sluts.” He bit down on her earlobe, hard.

A sob tore from Harriet’s throat, and he chuckled. “That’s right, bitch. Cry.” His hand squeezed down on her breast. No, her mind rebelled, he wasn’t allowed to do this. He shouldn’t, couldn’t touch her like this. Not when Robin had caressed her so gently not so very many days before. She kicked back, as hard as she could, but Zabini anticipated her movement, and stepped to her side. All her foot hit was hard stone; her toes smarted. She gasped out another cry, and shuddered when his hand went roughly between her legs, grasping her through her school skirt and tights.

She was okay at nonverbal spells- not as good as some, but she could cast a good range without giving away her intentions. Wandless magic, though, wasn’t something that was taught at Hogwarts. It was considered too advanced, saved for the students of the few magical institutes of higher education. But magical children had outbursts of uncontrolled magic. If she could just do something, use her magic to push Blaise away, or get her wand back into her hand… _Accio wand_ she thought as hard as she possibly could, imagining her glowing wand leaping back into her hand. _Accio wand_!

Her wand didn’t so much as twitch. Blaise yanked at her blouse, scattering a couple of buttons to the floor. The flesh above a breast was pinched cruelly, and Blaise laughed. “You’re an abomination to nature, Potter,” he spat. “I’m going to show you what happens to people like you. You won’t be able to walk when I’m through with you. Were you a fag, eh? Did you like it up the arse? Because that could be arranged too...”

She was a witch, damn it all! She shouldn’t be helpless like this. She was a quidditch player: fast and strong and agile. But Blaise was much bigger than her, wiry and strong and his arms were like steel bands. She pushed against him, trying to free herself, to no avail.

He bit her neck again, rough and sucking, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Everyone can see you for the slut you are,” he hissed. It was the biting that gave her the idea. She dipped her head quickly, too quickly for him to realise what she was doing, and sunk her teeth into the back of his hand. She’d aimed for the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb, but missed. Her teeth slipped against bones and tendons, but she had enough of a grip to cause him to cry out. “Fucking cunt!” he yelled, his grip loosening as he tried to dislodge her.

It was enough of an opening. She twisted out of his arms, diving for her wand, a beacon in the darkness. The comforting length of holly in her hand, she backed towards the door.

It flung open, bashing her in the back. Blaise lunged for her again as she toppled, but she wasn’t so off balance that she couldn’t react. “Stupefy!” she shouted. Blaise dropped like a stone.

“What the hell?” Malfoy snapped from the door. “Harriet, what the fuck?”

She stared at him wide-eyed, her wand pointed firmly at him. He held his hands up as if in surrender, showing that he was unarmed, his wand not yet drawn. She barged past him and ran full pelt down the corridor, skidding to a halt at her portrait to perform the opening spell, slamming it behind her as soon as she was through. She didn’t think that Malfoy was following her, but still…

He was probably reviving Blaise, she rationalised. He’d be tending to his friend. She bit her lip. She’d knocked out a fellow student; not just that, she’d stupefied a Slytherin seventh year, a popular boy in the most vengeful house in the school. As if her life wasn’t hand enough already…

Blaise would tell. She knew he’d tell on her, conveniently missing out the part where he’d lured her into an empty storeroom and groped her. She needed to find someone who’d believe her over him. McGonagall didn’t have great form on believing her- Harriet still hadn’t forgiven her teacher for trusting Lavender over her.

The irony that she was going to her attacker’s head of house wasn’t lost on her as she threw floo powder into the fireplace.

Severus was obviously just arriving himself; he was unbuttoning his teaching robes as she whirled into his sitting room. “I believe Robin is in his room, Harriet,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

She hadn’t even realised she was shaking until she stood there on Severus’ plush rug, the warmth of the fire at her back. Her voice caught in her throat; it sounded small and weak. “I stupefied Blaise Zabini.”

Severus’ fingers stilled halfway down his row of buttons. “Why?” he asked after several beats of silence.

“He attacked me.”

“Are you hurt?” Severus asked at the same moment as Robin’s voice cried “what?” from behind her.

Severus held up a hand to silence his son as Harriet turned towards his voice. “Harriet,” he said, his voice grave, “Where is Blaise?”

“The old storeroom down from my room,” she said in a small voice. “I think Malfoy’s with him.”

Severus nodded, refastening his buttons with a spell. “Stay here, both of you,” he instructed firmly. “I need to make sure Blaise is awake. I’ll be back soon.”

Harriet couldn’t meet Robin’s eyes, so she looked at the cat in his arms instead. He set Sheba on the floor, and she stalked over to the fireplace and proceeded to wash. She was so focused on the feline that she didn’t hear Robin’s soft footsteps. She jumped when he spoke from just behind her. “Are you alright, Harriet?” he asked, his voice rough. She nodded, but stiffened when he laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not,” he rebuked tenderly. “You’re shaking.” He pushed her gently towards the sofa, and perched next to her, holding her hand. “What happened?” he asked.

She gulped in a couple of lungfuls of air. “I… I thought I heard one of the other students calling for help, down the corridor from my room. When I checked the storeroom, he disarmed me and grabbed me. I… I bit him to get him to let me go.” She still couldn’t quite believe she’d been reduced to such tactics. “I managed to stupefy him when he was distracted, then I ran,” she finished quietly.

“Did he… rape you?” Robin asked hesitantly after a few minutes of silence.

Harriet shook her head. “I think he was going to,” she said. She realised she wasn’t the only one shaking: Robin was rigid and trembling with barely contained anger. She reached up to run the fingers of her free hand through his hair. She hadn’t yet got used to how silky it was compared to her own wild mane. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

“That’s not the point,” he growled. “No one should be able to hurt you.” His eyes swept over her, taking in the missing three buttons from her blouse, leaving a slip of bra showing when she had her robes unfastened. He brushed his fingers against the reddened mark on the side of her neck. “I should be able to heal this for you. I should be able to protect you.”

“She needs no protection from you, Robin,” Severus commented dryly from behind them. “She’s quite capable of defending herself.” He winced as he crouched down in front of Harriet. He looked exhausted, she realised. “Mr Zabini is awake again, with a nasty bump to the back of his head. I’ve sent him off to the hospital wing. Draco is under the impression that Blaise may have been attempting to sexually assault you. He is quite distraught at the idea.”

Harriet nodded glumly. Severus pressed on. “Did he touch you, Harriet? Did he, god forbid, rape you?” She bit her lip and glanced at Robin. She didn’t want him to hear the things Blaise had said to her. He was already angry, and she didn’t want him doing anything stupid. A quiet little part of her also whispered that perhaps Robin wouldn’t want her anymore.

“I’d rather not,” she said.

Severus seemed to at least guess at what she was thinking. “Would it be easier if you showed me the memory?” he suggested kindly. “That way, you don’t have to say it.”

“Yes, please,” she said gratefully.

Severus rose from his knees with a groan. “Don’t fight,” he warned. “it will be easiest if you don’t fight.” He settled himself in his armchair. “ _Legilimens_.”

Harriet’s first instinct was to throw up shields, block him out. One by one, though, she dropped them, letting him into her mind. He wasn’t trying to break her this time, it was just a firm pressure, not the usual onslaught. She leaned into Robin, and left her mind bare for Severus. Blaise’s cruel words reverberated through her head as the Potions master teased out the memory. She shrank back further into the sofa, cringing at the reliving of Blaise’s hands rough against her and the utter helplessness she’d felt.

Severus sighed as he broke the connection. “You did just right, Harriet,” he said. “You have done nothing which should cause you a moment’s shame. It is Mr. Zabini who should be feel humiliation.”

“Because he got beaten by a girl?” she asked quietly.

Severus had the good grace to look shocked at the suggestion. “Not at all,” he corrected. “Your sex is of no relevance. He should be ashamed at his actions. You’re a powerful witch, Harriet. I would have been unsurprised if you’d managed the wandless magic, had the...assault continued any further. Wandless casting requires either great concentration and preparation, or great power. You have that power.”

She blushed at the compliment. Robin pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “If Dad says you did well, you did… he doesn’t give praise out easily.”

Severus sniffed in disdain at his son’s words. “I need to do homework checks on my Slytherins,” he told them. “Harriet, I’ll discuss this with Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall in the morning. In the meantime, or, indeed, as a general instruction for life, don’t go gallivanting after the disembodied voices of your friends.”

A muttered _episkey_ as Severus passed them faded the bruise forming on her neck. Harriet smiled weakly at seeing Severus run a potion-stained hand over the top of Robin’s head.

The pair sat in silence for a few moments, Robin idly stroking her hair. “I don’t know what I should be doing for you, what I should be saying,” he admitted eventually.

“I don’t either,” she assured him. “I just feel.. dirty. I didn’t want him to touch me.” She pulled her legs up onto the edge of the sofa, toying with the threads left after her buttons had popped off. “He was rough, it hurt. It wasn’t like when you touched me.”

Robin’s hand stilled on her head. “Harriet,” he said, his voice cracking, “I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to tell me, but I have to know… what did he do? You said he didn’t rape you, but…”

“He groped me, that’s all,” she said quietly. “He never even got my clothes off before I bit him.”

Robin relaxed ever so slightly at her words, and even snorted a small laugh at the idea of her biting Blaise. “I’m so proud of you for getting away,” he said, gently kissing her forehead. Harriet turned her face up, wanting a real kiss. He stilled as she strained up towards him. “Harriet…” he said gently, “I’m not sure you’re in the right frame of mind…”

“Please?” she begged. “I want to forget him. I’d rather remember you.”

He sighed, his breath puffing soft across her face. “Why must you be so irresistible?” he asked before leaning down to close the gap and kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, enjoying the softness of his lips and the tenderness with which he cradled her. She deepened the kiss.

“Does your dad check homework often?” she asked when they broke for air, wondering how long they had until Severus returned.

“Twice a week for as long as I can remember,” Robin said, pulling her towards him until she was half on his lap, settled in the crook of his arm. She leaned her ear against his chest contentedly, hearing the thump of his heart. “Well, as long as I’ve been visiting Hogwarts during term-time, anyway.”

“What was it like, growing up half in one world and half in another?” she wanted to know. She’d spent her first eleven years ignorant of the wizarding world, and then been thrust into it; she couldn’t imagine hiding what she was all the time, especially as a young child.

Robin rested his chin atop her head. “It was just my life,” he explained. “I always knew that I couldn’t tell anyone about my dad, I just didn’t know why. He explained it all to me when I was about four, just before I started school. Back then, he thought I would be magical. It’s not too unusual for children not to manifest until they’re about six or seven.”

“I turned my year two teacher’s hair blue…” Harriet shared, smiling at the memory. “Was he really strict?” she wanted to know.

“Dad? Yeah, I suppose so. Well, my mum was a complete pushover, so it’s probably a good thing he was. He made sure I did well in school, got all my homework done. I spent my summers here, learning Latin and ancient Greek and Potions. When I was in the middle of the teenage rebellion, about fourteen, he flooed in every schoolnight to make sure I went to bed. He dosed me with dreamless sleep a couple of times, until I figured it was better to just go to bed and skip the argument.”

“It sounds like the worst nightmare of any of us, Snape on our case all the time.”

Robin’s laugh was deep and it reverberated around his chest and her ear. “He has high expectations, but he’s patient and fair.”

Before this year, Harriet would have scoffed to hear Severus described such. He was the greasy bat of the dungeons, the taker of points and giver of detentions. He had no patience; he expected a perfect result first time and brooked no failure at all. But now, now that he’d properly taught her occlumency and been so kind about her change in circumstances, she could understand.

Robin broke her train of thought. “Can anyone else get into your room?” he asked.

“I suppose Dumbledore can,” she said. “I think any door in the castle will open for the headmaster. You or Severus can, from the fireplace, and the house elves, but no one else, I don’t think. Why?”

He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “I’m just worried about you. Will you be okay tonight? Will you be safe?”

She shrugged. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t really have much choice.”

“Well, I could stay with you, if you like. Or you could stay here? My bed’s big enough for both of us.”

Her heart leaped at the possibility of spending a night curled up against the warmth of Robin.

 

 


	19. A little birdie told me...

Harriet was grumpy. She’d been grumpy for days. Blaise had been given two weeks of detention with Filch. Severus assured her that he’d pushed for at least suspension from the school, if not expulsion, but Dumbledore had argued that Blaise was simply distraught at the recent death of his stepfather. Besides, it wasn’t the first time a less than willing girl had been fondled; the boys were just usually a little gentler about it. Every time she saw Blaise, her heart gave a painful start, and just for a second, the felt the breathless panic from the dark storeroom. She did her best to ignore the fact that the corridor continued after her room.

To make matters worse, Severus had been uncompromising on the idea of she and Robin staying the night together. First, he’d pointed out that the student beds at Hogwarts reported when their occupants were not in them at expected times. Harriet wondered if the Gryffindor beds were broken- they’d snuck around at night frequently enough. Perhaps Dumbledore had just turned a blind eye. Secondly, he’d informed them that he was still not supportive enough of their relationship to allow such a thing. Harriet had tried shouting, but had been sent sulkily back to her own room. She suspected that Robin got a more thorough dressing down after she had gone, but she couldn’t be sure: he’d not visited her since. An owl to him had returned with her letter, looking mildly befuddled. She’d never known an owl fail to deliver before, but perhaps this one was stupid. She’d tried to send the letter with Hedwig, but her trusty companion had refused to so much as accept it. She’d given up, wondering if Robin had decided that she wasn’t worth the trouble and refused her owl.

And now, to top it off, Malfoy had apparently taken up residence outside her door. Her wards chimed every so often, the doorbell spell that Hermione had worked in letting her know that she had a visitor. Unfortunately, though, Hermione didn’t seem to have built in any kind of silencing option.

Malfoy had been following her about trying to talk to her for three days, ever since Blaise had cornered her in the storeroom. Between avoiding him and staying away from Ron’s icy glances, Harriet seemed to be rushing from lessons to meals to her room, trying to not be caught alone by Malfoy, or left alone with Ron. The wards chimed again. This was like torture, she decided, burying her head in in her hands. She could go through the fireplace to Severus’s quarters, but the idea of joining him in his rooms like nothing had happened, like he didn’t hate the idea of her being with his son… She was dreading Monday’s Occlumency lesson. Handing in her homework on contraceptives had been bad enough; she was sure she’d been scarlet writing about the one recommended for virgin witches, which, it turned out, included mild aphrodisiacs, activating only when the witch became sexually aroused. The knowledge that Severus had fed her a potion designed to make it easier to have sex just didn’t mesh well with the man who refused to let her spend time in a bedroom with his son. She couldn’t figure it out.

The chime sounded again. With a cry, Harriet threw down her quill, splattering a few drops of ink across her charms textbook. She wrenched open the door, the portrait sliding neatly away on the other side. Malfoy looked up.

“Ah, excellent. I knew you’d come out eventually,” he drawled. “I thought I might have to wait until it was time for Defence.” He was sat on the hard stone floor of her corridor, a textbook balanced on his knee, looking up at her.

“Go away, Malfoy,” Harriet sighed. Malfoy stood, dusting off his robes, but made no move to leave, just looked expectantly at her. She could just go back into her room, she supposed, but she’d be subjected to the wards again. It didn’t look like Malfoy was going anywhere, and there was still an hour until Defence. If she left her room, he’d follow her. She was trapped. “What do you want?” she sighed.

“To apologise for Zabini,” he said.

“Okay, you’ve apologised. Now go away!” she snapped. Malfoy reached out to touch her arm, but she snatched it back.

“Look, what he did was stupid. There’s no excuse for it.” He looked down the corridor as voices passed, some sixth year Slytherins on their way outside. “Can I come in?” he asked. “I don’t think this is a good conversation to be having in a hallway. Look, I’ll even give you my wand, so you know there’s no funny stuff, okay?”

No wizard ever willingly gave his wand to someone else unless they were serious. Malfoy obviously trusted her to give it back, and he was desperate enough to talk to her that he would go to any lengths. She held out her hand. No matter how much bigger than her he was, if she was the only one with a wand, she could take him.

He carefully laid his hawthorn wand into her outstretched palm. She closed her hand around it, feeling the buzz of an unfamiliar wand, and stepped back to let him inside. He gladly took a seat on the sofa- the ground outside her room had been hard and cold. She stood, leaning back against the edge of her big desk, strewn with books and parchment and a couple of broken quills. With all the essays they had to write this year, she was going through quills at a rate of knots. “So, what couldn’t you say in the corridor, Malfoy?” she asked.

Malfoy’s cool grey eyes didn’t leave hers. “Blaise is an idiot, but I had no idea he would do… what he did,” he said. “I know he didn’t get much of a punishment: his family have donated a lot of money to the school. But you need someone to look out for you. He’s angry, and I’m worried that he’ll try again. The Slytherins respect me, but I can’t make them something they’re not.”

“I seem to remember that I was doing okay at looking out for myself when you barged in,” Harriet pointed out.

Malfoy inclined his head in agreement. “You did well,” he admitted grudgingly. “Not many girls would have had the guts to stupefy.”

Harriet gritted her teeth. Two years ago, she’d probably have punched Malfoy, but she was better at controlling her anger now. “I’d imagine anyone, no matter if they’re a girl or a boy, would have done what they needed to to get away,” she said through clenched teeth.

Malfoy’s shoulders rose elegantly in a nonchalant shrug. “You might be surprised,” he countered. “It doesn't matter, either way… Blaise will be ready for your tricks, next time.”

“So, you’re what? Warning me to be careful? Trust me, Malfoy, the hour long lecture I had from McGonagall about keeping myself safe and away from dark corners was enough, thanks. I don’t need to hear it from you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve learnt your lesson,” the blond said smoothly. “No, I have a different idea in mind. You see, at the moment, Blaise sees you as fair game. But if you were… attached to someone he saw as a threat, well…” He spread his hands, inviting her to see his point.

“Hang on,” she said after a few seconds, “is that you _asking me out_?” She snorted a laugh.

Malfoy couldn’t hide the affronted contortion of his features. “There’s no need to laugh at it,” he snapped. “Blaise wouldn’t dare to touch you; nor would anyone else. My family may not be as well regarded as it was- my father is still under house arrest, after all, but we are powerful. You’d have everything you could want; you’d be showered with gifts and you’d have respect from the wizarding world. Someday, you’d bear the heir to one of the most ancient houses, and your children would want for nothing.”

“My children?” she asked incredulously. “You seriously think I’m going to marry you and have kids with you?”

“You’d be an idiot not to take me up on the offer.”

“I’m a halfblood. What about your precious blood purity?”

Malfoy was looking slightly discomfited. “Given that our children would only be a quarter muggle-blooded, it doesn’t matter. Even the best families need new blood every so often, and the Potters and the Malfoys haven’t intermarried.”

“So, let me get this right,” Harriet said with a raised eyebrow and a badly concealed grin, “I’d be your girlfriend, and then, when we leave school, we’d get married. I’d move into Malfoy manor and get to work having babies.”

Malfoy shifted on the sofa. Harriet was enjoying the feeling of having an uncomfortable and wandless Malfoy on her sofa. “That’s a long way in the future,” he pointed out. “For now, perhaps we could just get to know each other… put the word out that you’re unavailable, and no one else will dare to try to lure you into dark corners.”

“I’m not interested in you that way, Malfoy.”

His hands bunched in his lap. “You’re turning me down?” he asked with incredulity in every note in his voice. “Why? You’re still into girls?”

“I was never into girls,” Harriet admitted quietly. “I just don’t think that the fact that one of your friends assaulted me is a good enough reason to form a relationship. Is that all, or was there something else you wanted?”

He was still looking at her like she’d run mad. “That was all,” he said slowly. “Look, the offer’s still open. I can do my best to call Blaise off the scent, but this really is the only way to keep him away. Slytherins are territorial.”

She walked him to the door, handing his wand back. Before she could close it, though, he slid his foot in. “Seriously, Harriet, you’d be a fool not to take me up on this. If nothing else, I’m good in bed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Good to know, Malfoy,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of sarcasm.

“For a start,” he said, pulling his foot back, “You can stop calling me Malfoy. My name’s Draco, and I prefer to be called by my given name amongst friends.”

“Friends?” she asked. A few moments ago, he was talking about getting married…

“Or more, when you change your mind,” he said with a smirk.

“Ugh, Draco!” she exclaimed, but couldn’t help a smile. “Go away. I’ll see you in Defence anyway.”

Professor Lupin, it turned out, had heard about Harriet’s escapades, and decided that summoning your wand if it was knocked from your hand was a good skill to have. Harriet wasn’t so sure she liked the idea by the end of the lesson, when the only person who’d so much as made her wand twitch was Hermione, and everyone had a headache from the repeated calls of accio wand. She could understand why wandless spells were considered such advanced magic.

She was too tired when she sat down to dinner to care that she’d plonked herself next to Ron instead of Neville or Hermione. She yawned widely, and didn’t pay any attention to Ron’s customary shuffle away from her.

Hermione slammed down her fork. “I’m sick of this,” she declared. “Look, I don’t care what your differences are, you’ve been friends since the first time you set eyes on each other. Ron, you’re coming to Harriet’s room tonight, and you two are going to sort this out!”

“There’s nothing to sort!” Ron cried plaintively. “She’s had some kind of brain transplant!”

“He won’t listen, Hermione,” Harriet groused.

“I don’t care!” Hermione informed them tartly. “Eat, then we’re going to Harriet’s if I have to put a full body bind on you and drag you there, Ronald.”

Ron let out a long suffering sigh and dug his fork into his mashed potato. “There had better be cake,” he moaned.

It was that comment that gave Harriet the idea. There was a plate of chocolate bourbon biscuits on her desk, and she was sure that a small top up would be in order. She grinned, and tucked into her dinner with gusto.

It was the work of a few moments to reach into her desk drawer and pull out a few budgerigar bourbons to scatter amongst the chocolate biscuits on the plate. Ron very quickly plonked himself into Harriet’s favourite chair. She suppressed her annoyance, knowing that he’d soon have his comeuppance, and turned the plate of biscuits so the budgerigar bourbons were nearest him. In typical Russian roulette style, though, he took an unadulterated one first. “Right,” Hermione said authoritatively, “what’s the problem? Ron, you go first.”

Ron waved the other half of his biscuit in the air, jabbing it towards Harriet. “She,” he said, “reckons that Death Eaters are a lovely bunch, and we should have them around for tea.”

“That’s not what I said!” Harriet burst out over Ron.

“Hush, Harriet!” Hermione said. “You need to listen to the points of your opponent, then gather our thoughts and make your rebuttal. Ron, please continue.”

“That conflict management course you took has gone to your head,” Harriet grumbled.

Ron looked a bit red. “Well, that’s it, really,” he said.

“Okay. Now, Harriet, your turn. Ron, listen to everything she has to say, and we’ll see if either of you have a different view at the end.”

Harriet sighed, trying to make her displeasure at being told when she could speak and when she must be silent clear. “I never said I liked Death Eaters,” she explained. “I said that I don’t want to be the one in charge of killing them. It’s terrible, knowing that someone died because of you. I still dream of Sirius, imagine all the ways that I could have saved him. They need to have a trial, and someone else needs to be responsible for their death, not me.”

“But that was Sirius- you cared about him!” Ron interjected.

Hermione shushed him impatiently. “Sirius dying wasn’t your fault, Harriet,” she said. “You know that.”

Harriet shrugged. “Yeah, I didn’t kill him, but he died because I was there. Think how much worse it would be if my spell actually killed someone. I shouldn’t have to make that call, none of us should. We should be aiming to capture Death Eaters and let a court make that judgement.”

“So what, you want to tie up you-know-who and send him to the Wizengamot?” Ron asked incredulously.

Harriet shrugged. “If possible. But it won’t be me that makes that call.”

“What? You’re just giving…” But Ron was cut off by a squawk. Hermione was the first to fall victim to the budgerigar bourbons. In her chair was an attractive blue-and-white bird, eying them with beady eyes. Ron just stared at her for a long moment, then bent double, laughing. Harriet’s grin became a chuckle, and within a minute, she was laughing almost as hard as Ron. Somehow, Hermione managed to make even budgie cheeps sound outraged. The giant budgie hopped from foot to foot, scolding them, which only made them laugh louder.

By the time Hermione shed her feathers, tears were pouring from Ron’s eyes. “Merlin, that was hilarious,” he chortled, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’ve never seen a bird look so annoyed!”

“The house elves most certainly did not give you that biscuit Harriet!” Hermione scolded.

Harriet shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was hilarious,” she said. “Fair warning, though, there’s two others in there somewhere.”

Ron immediately dived for the biscuits, stuffing one in his mouth. The second yielded his desired results; his budgie was a garish green and yellow. He chirped merrily, and hopped down to look into Harriet’s mirror, where he tilted his head to the side quizzically, and let out a series of high trills that Harriet supposed to be laughter. She hadn’t supposed Ron would be so happy about it, but he seemed delighted by his bird form. Even Hermione had to giggle at him hopping about animatedly. At least the feathers he shed vanished magically, Harriet was relieved to note. The house elves didn’t need to be cleaning up Ron’s dander. Somehow, a trick meant to humiliate Ron had delighted him; Harriet just hoped it put him in a better mood.

“We need to feed these to someone else,” Ron declared when he was human again, a grin plastered across his face. “C’mon, let’s take them to the common room!”

“I think you’re missing something, Ron,” Hermione said primly.

“Huh?”

“Well, we were in the middle of a fascinating discussion on the merits of killing Death Eaters before we sprouted feathers.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron remembered. He plonked himself down in the chair again. “You’re just going to give up, Harriet? You’re going to let the snakey git have his way, even after you’ve fought him all these years?”

Harriet shrugged. “It’s not up to me anymore,” she said. “It’s Neville’s job now.”

“Neville?!” both Ron and Hermione exclaimed in unison.

“Yeah. The prophecy specified that it was about a he. I’m a she.”

“Are you sure, mate?” Ron asked, looking a bit green around the gills. “About the Neville thing, I mean… not about the girl bit.”

Harriet nodded. “Yeah. ‘The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.’ That only leaves Neville- we’re the only two magical children born at the end of July that year.”

Hermione was frowning, but Ron was nodding. “I guess I can see your point,” he admitted. “Killing people can’t be that great.” he thought for a few moments. “That explains why Dumbledore keeps getting Neville to go and see him,” he mused. “He was gone all night last week.”

“All night?” Harriet confirmed. “Did… did Neville say what they were doing?” She wondered if Dumbledore had found another Horcrux, and had taken Neville on the journey to fetch it.

Ron shook his head. “He won’t talk about it, but he’s always exhausted when he comes back.”

“Harriet,” Hermione interrupted, “can you remember what the prophecy was, word for word? Did Dumbledore tell you all of it?”

The words had been burned into Harriet’s memory since she’d heard them. “Yeah,” she said. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...." She finished her recitation, accompanied only by the crackle of the fire.

Hermione thought for a moment. “The Dark Lord will mark him… Voldemort’s never marked Neville, but he gave you your scar. What if the prophecy still stands, because Voldemort thought you were a boy?”

“Dumbledore doesn’t think so, and nor does Snape,” Harriet said quietly. “Maybe because Neville’s a pureblood, Voldemort already thinks they’re equal… or maybe he just hasn’t marked him yet. The prophecy never says when the marking will happen.”

“Or maybe Trelawney’s a complete fraud,” Ron supplied. The thought had crossed Harriet’s mind, but Dumbledore thought that the prophecy was for real. He believed in it enough to have dedicated seventeen years to protecting Harriet, and to protecting Trelawney. She shook her head. The prophecy was as real as any was likely to be.

So why, she wondered, when she’d had the burden of killing Voldemort lifted, did she feel more alone than ever in those moments, sat there with her friends? She shivered despite the fire.

 

 


	20. A trip to Hogsmeade

Hermione had confided in Harriet that there has been questions of the Hogsmeade weekends even happening this year. Certainly, the stern instructions given to the students by McGonagall were stricter than usual, and a number of the lower years’ students had not been given permission to visit the village by their parents. The fear of Voldemort was looming large in the minds of the populace. The first year was smaller than usual too this year, some parents choosing to continue their children’s education at home.

Gryffindor and Ravenclaw prefects were in charge of keeping everyone in line this weekend, and Ron grumbled about how little time he’d have to enjoy himself between keeping the third years well away from the shrieking shack and out of the Hogs Head, both of which were strictly off limits this year. Both Hermione and Harriet tried to point out that it had been his choice to accept his prefect’s badge, but to no avail.

Luckily, the budgerigar incident, as Harriet now thought of it, had broken the tension between them. She still had the impression that Ron thought she’d gone soft, but he wasn’t keeping away from her anymore.

Ron and Hermione peeled away from Harriet with an apologetic grin from Hermione and a scowl from Ron as they went to head off a group of third years inexorably drawn to the shrieking shack. The decrepit old building held a fascination for most students, so Harriet thought that it may be a losing battle, trying to keep students away from it. But she could also see that the boarded up building, with its overgrown bushes and trees, would also be a perfect place for someone with bad intentions to hide.

Zonko’s was closed now. The twins were in discussions to buy it, but for now, it sat, empty and forlorn. The old joke shop just hadn’t been able to compete with the innovation of the Weasley Twins, and saw their custom nibbled at the edges until nothing was left. Harriet ducked into Scrivenshaft’s to pick up a few more quills and a new bottle of ink. She knew that her consumption of ink was probably still only half Hermione’s, but it still felt like she never stopped writing.

She found Neville and Luna in Honeydukes. Luna had a particular fondness for sugar quills, and Neville had found himself quite unable to resist keeping her in good supply. She smiled up at him, and stood on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. Neville blushed red and grinned like a fool, and a stab of jealousy tore through Harriet’s chest. She wanted to be able to be with Robin in public, to share a kiss and a smile. But she didn’t even know if Robin was still interested anymore, since he’d apparently refused her owl. He was a squib, anyway, and she knew that any relationship they did have would have to be secret until the war was done and Severus was no longer balancing in the dangerous position of double agent. It still didn’t seem fair.

“Shall we have lunch at the three broomsticks?” Harriet suggested to the pair. She didn’t much mind if they were all loved up at this point; she just didn’t want to sit on her own at lunch until Ron or Hermione was released to have some time to themselves. Neville and Luna agreed without hesitation. At least they weren’t the kind of couple who would leave her as a complete third wheel, she mused, even if Luna did try to steer the conversation around to the kind of plants a nargle would typically choose as habitat.

The pub had enough of a hubbub that a private conversation would go unheard by those beyond their little corner table. She hadn’t expected to have the chance to talk to Neville away from most of their friends so soon as well. She considered Luna as she took the first bit of her cheese and pickle sandwich. Luna certainly didn’t gossip: she didn’t have close enough friends to gossip even if she did. Harriet wondered how much she knew about Neville’s contact with Dumbledore anyway.

She answered his question for him. “You can say whatever it is you’re thinking,” Luna informed Harriet. “I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“How did you know?” Harriet asked. She was convinced that if anyone had the sight, it was Luna, and not Trelawney or any of her hangers-on. Sometimes it was like Luna was able to get into your thoughts, but Harriet had learnt enough occlumency by now to know if anyone was using magic to read her thoughts.

Luna cocked her head to the side. “It’s easy to guess things when you watch, and listen,” she confided. “You’re all fidgety, and you keep looking between Neville and me, and breathing like you’re going to speak.”

Harriet grinned. “Alright, Sherlock,” she teased.

“Sherlock?” Luna asked, missing the muggle reference.

“Oh, it’s nothing. He’s a fictional detective. I read some of the stories a couple of summers ago.” Harriet took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Neville, what’s going on with Dumbledore? Ron said you were meeting him all the time, and you were gone all night once.”

Neville looked down at his plate and mumbled something. Harriet had to ask him to repeat himself. “Dumbledore told me I wasn’t allowed to say anything to you,” he muttered.

Harriet huffed out the breath she’d been holding. How dare Dumbledore just drop her like this? she fumed internally. For years, he’d used her to attain his goals, and now, he’d just abandoned her. She could imagine his thoughts; that she was just a useless girl now, not his Golden Boy. She wasn’t even worthy of properly punishing Blaise for his attack on her as far as the headmaster was concerned. She took another bite of her sandwich, chewing with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary, and washed it down with a swig of butterbeer.

Luna appeared to be building a wall across her plate with her chips, stacking the wedges of potato atop each other, occasionally sticking one in her mouth. “Sometimes I think the headmaster isn’t very good at noticing things,” she offered by way of conversation. “For such a clever man, he’s not very observant.”

Harriet, personally, had come to agree with Luna’s view over the past few months. Albus Dumbledore might be the most powerful wizard of the age, and a formidable intellect, but she had lost respect for him, this year. She liked Neville; she didn’t want him to be nothing but Dumbledore’s next plaything. “Be careful, Neville,” she said. “Remember who it was that spent lots of last year shut in Dumbledore’s office.”

Neville looked startled at this. Apparently the thought hadn’t dawned on him. “Look,” Harriet continued, “Your life isn’t bound by prophecy. It’s taken me over a year to figure that out for myself.”

“Prophecy?” Neville asked, confused. “What’re you talking about?”

So, Harriet mused, either Neville was a very good actor, or Dumbledore genuinely hadn’t told him about the prophecy. “You know,” she said, “the one from the department of mysteries?”

“Your prophecy?” Neville asked. “Abou you and, and… you know who?”

“Erm, well, it wasn’t actually mine,” Harriet said cautiously. She could see Ron and Hermione coming in, and raised her hand to wave them over. “You know what, this isn’t the best place. I’ll tell you what I know when we’re back at the school, okay?”

Neville agreed as Ron and Hermione joined them, windswept and pink cheeked.

Harriet was happier when she opened the door to her room again late that afternoon, loaded down with packages, including a probably unhealthy supply of Honeydukes. She’d found a lovely leather bound set of notebooks for Hermione’s Christmas present. She was still toying with the idea of buying Ron a broom, but she still wasn’t sure if he’d find it insulting, and if he didn’t, his parents probably would. Maybe if she presented it as making sure Gryffindor won the quidditch cup in their last year…

She bent to tuck her chocolate stash in her desk drawer, next to the budgerigar bourbons and canary creams. It was only when she straightened up that she noticed the little bunch of daisies in a glass of water on her desk. A note with her name in Robin’s writing leaned against it.

_Dear Harriet,_

_I’m so sorry about Tuesday night, that I couldn’t spend the night with you. Dad says that I need to respect your space. So, with that in mind… I’ll be staying at Dad’s tonight and Sunday. You know where to find me if you want me, and if not, that’s fine too._

_Love,_

_Robin._

She couldn’t help a smile. Perhaps he’d refused her owl in a misguided attempt to ‘give her space’. She was furious with Severus for making such high-handed decisions about her life, and what she could and couldn’t cope with, but at least Robin still wanted to see her.

Before she could make it over to her pot of floo powder, though, her wards chimed. She dithered for a second or two, but if she suddenly vanished from her rooms when she’d gone to leave her stuff only a few minutes ago, her friends would get suspicious, and they didn’t know about the floo connection between her hearth and Severus’.  She’d better see who it was.

She’d been expecting Hermione, suggesting some work, or Ron after a fly-about before practice tomorrow morning, but she was instead greeted by a bashful-looking Neville. “I wanted to know what you were talking about,” he explained as he climbed in. “Professor Dumbledore… well, he doesn’t really tell me much, except that I need to work harder, do better.”

Harriet waved him to a seat and put the kettle on, mostly for something to do. “Has he told you anything about the prophecy?” she asked.

Neville shook his head. “No. I don’t get it- what’s a prophecy about you and you-know-who got to do with anything? I mean, I know everyone says you’re the chosen one, but why does that affect me?”

Harriet bit her lip, trying to find the best place to start. “The prophecy was… kind of vague,” she said eventually. “It was made by Trelawney to Dumbledore, and someone overheard part of it and reported it back to Voldemort. It said that someone with the power to destroy Voldemort would be born at the end of July, to parents who’d fought against him before. Voldemort figured that it was me, so he tried to kill me.” Neville nodded along to how that he he was listening. “Except… Trelawney specifically said that the one to defeat Voldemort would be male.”

A frown pulled Neville’s boyish features together. “So… it was wrong?” he asked.

Harriet shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “The thing is, there’s someone else that the prophecy could have been about.”

“Who?”

She took a deep breath. “You, Neville,” she said.

It didn’t come as a surprise that Neville didn’t have a good response to this. She put a cup of tea in front of him and let him process it. Her gaze kept shifting to her bunch of daisies: she knew she should be thinking about supporting her friend, not flowers, but that was easier said than done. She’d never have thought she’d be so happy with a bunch of flowers but somehow just the knowledge that Robin had gone out and picked them out for her made her heart expand in her chest. She did her best not to smile: Neville probably wouldn’t appreciate her grinning.

“So,” he said at length, “I have to kill you know who? That’s what Dumbledore’s wanting me to do? That’s why he took me to… I mean, on some chase to Godric’s Hollow in the middle of the night?”

“He was probably looking for a horcrux- it’s a bit of Voldemort’s soul. Did he find anything?” Harriet wanted to know.

Neville sighed in relief. “You know about horcruxes?” he asked. “I was trying to find a way not to mention them… I couldn’t figure out why Dumbledore wanted me to know about them, though, why he took me....”

“Haven’t you noticed how weak and ill he’s looked lately?” Harriet asked. “I bet he’s making sure that someone can keep destroying them if something happens to him. What was the horcrux, by the way?”

“He, erm, took a funny little china pig. It didn’t break when he chucked it at the floor or sent a blasting hex at it. From… from your bedroom, when you were a baby.”

The breath caught in Harriet’s throat. Dumbledore and Neville had been at the house in Godric’s Hollow? “What was it like?” she asked quietly.

“Erm, it was white and green spotty, about as big as a quaffle…” Neville began.

Harriet cut him off. “Not the pig. The house,” she clarified. “I’ve never been… well, been back, I suppose.”

Neville’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry!” he burbled out. “I suppose his is why I wasn’t meant to say anything… I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

It was more likely, Harriet thought angrily, that he wasn’t meant to say anything because Dumbledore didn’t see her as worthwhile any more, but she didn’t want to say that out loud, didn’t want to have it confirmed by the look on Neville’s face. Neville was rubbish at lying. “What was the house like?” she asked again instead.

Neville chewed his lower lip and couldn’t meet her eyes. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap. “It was kind of run down, I suppose. The windows in your bedroom were blown out, and there were leaves and branches and mud in there. Your room was all blue and green, under the mud. The roof had fallen in at the back of the house… we didn’t go there. I’m sorry, Harriet. I shouldn’t have said… I had no idea...”

“It’s fine,” Harriet assured, her voice hollow. “Look, Neville, all I wanted was to tell you to be careful. Don’t just believe whatever the headmaster tells you. And you shouldn’t have to be the one with the expectation of with world resting on you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to people being disappointed in me; Gran usually is. I’m just Neville Longbottom, cauldron exploder extraordinaire,” Neville offered, getting up to leave.

Harriet couldn’t help a grin at that in spite of herself. “Could you tell Ron and Hermione I just fancy some time to myself?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ll come to dinner.”

“Don’t think I will either,” Neville confided. “I’ll tell them, though.” Harriet smiled in thanks, and let him out. At least she should have the rest of the night to herself.

She couldn’t keep her mind off the house at Godric’s Hollow, though. She kept trying to picture it, trying to remember a green and blue room. How could Dumbledore have taken Neville, when it was her house? She owned it, how dare he just march in with someone else?

She could feel tears stinging in her sinuses. She glanced over at her daisies. She didn’t want to be alone, she realised, no matter what she’d told Neville. She wanted a hug. She wanted someone who didn’t see her as the boy who lived, the chosen one, some kind of freak. She wanted to just be Harriet. She wanted Robin.

She tossed some floo powder into the fire.


	21. In memorium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all like this one- it's probably been my favourite to write so far!

The floo dumped her into Severus’ quarters. She thought that she was getting better at floo travel with practice: she hardly ever fell over anymore. The living room was empty. “Hello?” she called.

“Harriet?” Robin’s voice floated through from the door by the fireplace. A moment later, he’d appeared too, a broad smile on his face. “You came. Did you like the flowers? I didn’t know what kind of flowers  you liked, but they made me think of you…”

She smiled in spite of herself. “They’re lovely, thank you. I don’t know what kind of flowers I like either.”

Severus appeared from the kitchen, drying his long hands on a tea towel. “”Your mother liked daisies,” he offered. “We’ll be eating soon, would you like to eat here or go to dinner with your friends, Harriet?”

The mention of her mother, on top of knowing about Neville and Dumbledore’s visit to Godric’s Hollow, proved to be just too much for Harriet. She sniffled, trying to hold back the tears, but they fell anyway. She scrunched up her eyes as Robin wrapped his arms around her. “What is it?” he asked softly. “What’s the matter? Tell me, Harriet...”

She shook her head. “It’s so stupid,” she forced out. “Why am I always crying? It’s nothing…” She buried her face into Robin’s t shirt. “Dumbledore took Neville to Godric’s Hollow.” She choked on the mumbled words.

“Come again? What was that?” Robin asked, puzzled.

“Come here,” Severus said from behind her. His hands prised her away from Robin, and he swung her into his arms like she was a child. Somehow, the gesture truly opened the floodgates, and she began to cry in earnest: loud, breath-stealing sobs. Severus settled into his chair and held her close against her chest as she gulped in mouthfuls of air only to cry them back out again. One hand petted her head gently even as the other pulled her against him. “It’s okay, Harriet, you cry all you need to.” Severus’ shirt smelled of roasting chicken and juniper.

Over her head, she heard Severus explaining to Robin. “Her parents lived in Godric’s Hollow,” he explained. “The house they were killed in has been left as a monument to the Potters. It would seem that the Headmaster has taken one of her friends to the house for some reason, without telling her. I would suppose that my mention of her mother has distressed her further.” Severus used the corner of a white handkerchief to dab away the dripping contents of her nose.

By the time she had cried herself into exhaustion, Robin had settled on the floor by Severus’ feet. Severus had stayed silent, just holding her. When she’d been quiet save for a few snuffles for a minute, he spoke. “Is that better?” he asked.

“I think so,” she whimpered, her voice hoarse from crying. Severus shifted her until she was sitting on his knee instead of limp against his chest, one arm still supporting her. Robin offered a glass of cold water, which she took eagerly in both hands, gulping to replace the water she’d lost.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Severus enquired. “I find myself quite curious about the reasoning for a visit to Godric’s Hollow by young Longbottom, unless Albus wished to scare him into action.”

“They were looking for a horcrux,” Harriet said. “It isn’t fair! How come Neville gets to go? It’s my house!”

She was becoming agitated again, and Severus hushed her soothingly, one long-fingered hand stroking her hair. “You’re right, it isn’t fair. So much of your life hasn’t been fair, Harriet, but then, which of us can say that life deals us a pleasant hand? Not Longbottom, certainly.”

She knew he was right, but she didn’t want to hear about anyone else’s bad luck right now. “Why are you even being nice to me?” she demanded petulantly. “You’re supposed to hate me because I look like my dad.”

Severus sighed deeply. “I never liked having to deal with ‘Harry’,” he began. “You were so like James, but you’ve matured now, far more so than he ever did. You must try to understand, I was waiting for Harriet- the perfect little girl that I pulled into the world, that I named, and that I, as much as I hated it, had to hide, to keep James Potter from infanticide. I hated the duplicity.”

“But I’m the same person,” Harriet sniffled.

“I know,” Severus said, offering her the handkerchief. “Call it my own foolishness.”

“I’ve never seen it,” she admitted quietly some moments later.

“Never seen what?” Severus asked.

“The house. I can’t remember it. I want to go, to see it.”

Severus sat thinking for a few minutes. “It’s in ruins,” he said eventually. “Everything’s in tatters. It would need a lot of work to look anything like what it should. The roof fell three years ago, and it was encrusted in dirt before that. Lily would have been horrified. Nevertheless, if that’s what you want, the headmaster should allow you to leave the school to see it, although I would suggest most strongly that you take a guard with you. A guard meaning aurors, not your ragtag gaggle of friends. You have your majority, so you cannot be stopped from visiting a property you own.”

“I want to see it,” Harriet said firmly. “I’ll ask Dumbledore tomorrow.”

“I would advise against giving him the knowledge that you are aware of his visit there,” Severus cautioned. “Perhaps you might like to inspect the Potter property in Edinburgh at the same time?”

Harriet nodded gratefully at the idea. Severus spoke again, hesitant this time. “In addition, if you wished, I could show you some memories of the house before it was destroyed. You were born there, so I visited, although only once.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Yes please,” she said. eagerly. If he was going to show her memories of the house, then he might show her memories of her parents.

He smiled down at her fondly. “After we eat, though.”

She fidgeted through dinner, roast chicken with mash and vegetables, eaten at the table in Severus’ little kitchen, which, contrary to popular belief, contained no cauldrons big enough to boil a third year. “Is this what having a parent is like?” she asked after Severus had told her to calm down and eat.

“Yes,” Robin said morosely, his head resting on one hand, the other drawing lazy patterns in the gravy with his fork. His father glared at him and tapped at his elbow until he removed it from the table.

“I kind of like it,” she said quietly. “No one’s ever held me while I cried before this year.”

“Oh, Harriet,” Robin gasped, “That’s terrible.”

“I’m sorry, Harriet,” Severus said. “I wish that I could have done right by you, all these years. I wanted to raise you as my own, when your mother was killed, but Dumbledore felt that I was too valuable as a spy to lose. I sometimes think I should have disregarded his advice: I should have heeded my duty to you.”

“To me?” she asked in surprise. “What duty? Did my mum ask you to take care of me, or…”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Severus said. “I am your godfather, after all.”

“No,” Harriet said after a moment’s pause and a frown, “Sirius was my godfather.”

Severus shook his head with a little smile. “You, my dear, are in the highly unusual position of having two magical godparents. You were named twice. Just after your birth, I named you Harriet Jane, thus registering your birth with the Ministry. Lily and I performed the spells to disguise your sex, and not more than a quarter of an hour later, Black named you Harry James, thus replacing the Ministry’s records of Harriet with those of Harry. You have two names, two godfathers and two birth certificates. Your Hogwarts and Ministry records were changed back to your original name by Albus shortly after your birthday.”

Harriet tried to process this. Robin spoke before she could. “Hang on,” he said, “if you need to have a magical godparent to be registered with the Ministry, who’s mine?”

“Lily was your godmother,” Severus told him. “I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with the knowledge of your very existence at the time. I was still too new in the Dark Lord’s camp, too observed. I couldn’t risk your life with someone I couldn’t trust absolutely.”

“So,” Harriet said slowly, “that’s why you had my birth certificate? That was what convinced Ron it was really me- the birth certificate. But my muggle one is for Harry.”

Severus nodded. “Yes, because muggle births are registered in the usual way for wizards and muggles alike- by visiting the registry office, which your parents did. I don’t know how you would go about changing your identity in the muggle world, should you wish to do so.”

That made sense, Harriet supposed. She tried to stifle a yawn, but she wasn’t fooling Severus or Robin. “Go and sit in the living room,” he instructed the two younger members of the party. “I’m sure you can find something to talk about. I have a few matters which require my attention.”

Harriet wanted to know what, but she knew by now that Severus didn’t volunteer information that he didn’t want to. She hoped he hadn’t forgotten his promise to show her the memories of Godric’s Hollow.

Robin tucked her up next to him on the sofa, fetching a blanket from one of the rooms beyond the fireplace. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her eyes dry and stinging after her earlier tears and the beginnings of a headache twinging in her temples. Robin leaned down to kiss her forehead. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Better, thanks,” Harriet mumbled, her eyes closed in contentment. Their position reminded her a little of his hands between her legs, bringing her to her first shuddering climax. She tried to put the thought from her mind; they couldn’t exactly repeat the exercise in Severus’ living room. “I’m sorry I keep crying on you.”

“You’ve had enough reason to cry,” he assured her softly. “Has what’s-his-name, was it Blaise? given you any trouble?”

“No, he hasn’t so much as looked at me since. He’s got detention every night for two weeks, so I suppose he doesn’t have much energy left.”

“I can’t believe writing lines is supposed to be a harsh enough punishment,” Robin growled.

Harriet chucked at that. “Writing lines? Not a chance! He’s with Filch- he’ll have all the nastiest jobs. Detention with Filch is worse than detention with Snape.”

“I’ve never heard you call him by his last name before,” Robin said.

“I, erm, try to keep Severus and Snape separate in my mind. Severus holds me when I cry, and Snape tells me off because I haven’t chopped my foxglove finely enough and insists that I am trying to kill everyone with an exploded cauldron.”

Robin tried to stifle his laugh, but couldn’t, instead coming out with a snorting chuckle. “Okay, I can see that the two don’t go together,” he admitted. He brushed her hair back off her face and she sighed in contentment at his touch. “Would you like to see my bedroom?” he asked in a murmur a minute later. “After all, I’ve seen yours… it only seems fair.”

“Is that a proposition?” she asked with a grin.

“Only a little one,” he said with mock-seriousness. “After all, I can’t imagine that my dad will be gone for that long.”

Harriet had expected Robin’s room to be quite bare: after all, he didn’t actually live here. She was surprised.

She supposed that anyone would gasp when they looked up at the high ceiling in his room. Painted wooden models of birds were charmed to hover above head height, lazily drifting around the room. Robin reached up and snagged a bird as it floated past. He offered it to her to examine with a smile.

It was a little brown bird with a scarlet red breast. “A robin,” she said with a grin.

“Yeah. It was the first. I used to make these, a bit of a hobby. They used to be lined up on shelves, but when I moved them here, Dad enchanted them for me. They roost when I go to bed.” He pointed at the rail running around the room just below ceiling height. “Sheba’s just about stopped trying to catch them. She broke a couple, at first.” Harriet let the painted bird go, watching it float up to join its fellows. She looked around the rest of the room. Sheba opened one green eye from her perch on the bed, then went back to sleep.

He had his father’s affinity for books. Lined up on his shelves, in leather or good fabric bindings, was row upon row of books, all except the bottom shelf which held dog-eared children’s books. Hermione would love this room, Harriet thought, looking at the half wall of bookshelves, the big desk (which held lined pads of paper and ballpoint pens, not quills and parchment) with ragged paperbacks strewn across it. Harriet loved the birds, the deep blue rug which her toes sank into like sand, the big fireplace and huge cushions strewn on the floor in front of it. She flopped down onto one of the oversized pillows with a grin, the heat from the fireplace warming her face. “Do you stay here often?” she asked as he joined her on the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and letting his hair fall forward.

“Not so much anymore,” he said. “I have uni, and work. It’s a nice escape from everything, though. My downstairs neighbour is having a party tonight, which I really didn’t fancy listening to. Well, it was more that I wanted to see you.”

The smile that plastered her face must have looked ridiculous, she thought. He didn’t seem to mind, though, pulling her into his side. His face hovered just above hers for a moment as he looked at her, his eyes searching hers.

His kiss was sweet and gentle. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. “God, Harriet, I want you so much,” he breathed when he broke the kiss, his forehead leaning against hers.

“I want you too,” she replied.

“Harriet… I’ve got to ask. Are you on any kind of contraceptive? I don’t want us to get carried away one day and, well…”

“It’s okay,” she assured him with a blush. “I am. Well, I think I need another dose in a few days, but yeah.”

He stroked a big hand over her cheek. “Make sure you take it, yeah? Or tell me if you don’t want to, and I can take something.”

“I will,” she promised him, reaching up for another kiss. He gladly obliged her.

“Well,” Severus’ voice drawled from the doorway, “I wasn’t aware that this was my living room.”

They sprang apart guiltily, but Robin kept one arm tucked around Harriet’s waist, giving his father a challenging look. Severus just rolled his eyes. “At least you weren’t in bed. Come on,” he said, “If you want to see these memories, Harriet, you’ll have to come through to the living room.”

The first thing Harriet saw in the living room was the carved stone bowl of the pensieve on the table, the ghostly shimmer of memories flitting inside. “This will be rather more comfortable than legilimency,” Severus explained. As she watched, he raised his wand to his temple, drawing out gossamer wisps of memory. Carefully he flicked them into the bowl. “Would you like to go in alone, or with company?” he asked. She bit her lip, unsure. Did she want to see it alone? She had to admit, she was almost scared of the memory. And it was Severus’ memory- he knew it already. “Can you come too, please?” she asked.

“Of course. Alone, or with Robin?”

“Can squibs use a pensieve?” she asked curiously. Robin winced. She wondered if there was a nicer word for the magic-less- he clearly wasn’t keen on squib. Severus inclined his head. “Yes. Even a muggle can view a pensieve. It is only the extraction of memories that requires magical power.”

She offered a hand to Robin, the question in her eyes. He smiled kindly and took her hand in his, stepping up to the shimmering stone bowl. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

“Just lean forward until you touch the mist,” Severus advised him. Harriet tipped into the pensieve, feeling the tug on her hand as Robin followed a few moments later. Severus coalesced beside her just as a knock sounded on the front door. Harriet looked around.

They were tucked into the corner of the hall, just next to the stairs. She noticed with glee that there was no cupboard under the stairs; instead, the space was open, housing a loaded coat rack and a sideboard strewn with bits of post and a pot of owl treats. “James, can you get that? It’ll be Severus.” Her heart lurched at the sound of her mother’s voice: sweet and soft.

“You can still change your mind,” James answered. His voice, at least, Harriet knew from her previous foray into Snape’s mind in the pensieve in fifth year, though it had been harsher then. He didn’t speak in jeers now, although that might have been more to do with his other conversant than age. “We can go to St. Mungo’s. It would be much better.”

“Get the door, James,” Lily sighed. Harriet watched the man she resembled so closely meander across the hall from the door behind them: she caught a glimpse of a bright kitchen. It was hard to believe that this man would have killed her for the simple crime of being a female child.

He unlocked the door. “Snape,” he snapped.

A younger, smoother Severus stepped into the hall, his hair smoothly tied back from his face, which was unlined. He’d been ravaged by the last seventeen years, Harriet realised. He looked tired, but nowhere near the bat of the Hogwarts dungeons. “Potter. How is Lily?”

James’ face twisted with a seer as he backed Severus into the corner by the door. “If you know what’s good for her, you’ll send her to St. Mungo’s, Snivellus,” he hissed. “Odd way to get into her knickers, this.”

“I’ll do what’s best for Lily,” Severus said smoothly, ducking out from behind James. “Where is she?”

James inclined his head to the other door, and Harriet, Robin and older Severus followed them through to the bright room. The overwhelming feeling of the whole house was one of light and air, with the windows open and the French doors to the garden thrown wide. The sweet smell of the lilacs that flanked the doors hung in the air. Lily smiled up at the two men, her hands resting on the massive swell of her belly. Severus perched on the corner of the footstool holding her delicate feet aloft. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“A bit nervous,” she admitted.

“Which is why you need to be with an experienced midwife. A woman,” James cut in.

“I trust Severus,” she replied, her gentle smile not wavering. James sighed deeply, but fell silent.

Older Severus best down to mutter into Harriet’s ear. “Your mother always knew how to keep your father calm. She had a temper all of her own, but she rarely showed it to James.” Harriet nodded, transfixed by her mother’s face as she spoke to Severus, her hands rested against her bump- the bump that was her, she realised with a little frisson of surprise. It wasn’t only Severus who was here twice; she was too.

They followed Severus and Lily up to the back bedroom, all blond wood and deep Gryffindor red accents. Here, though, the memory fizzled, going indistinct and moving in a swirl of colour and white noise. “Forgive me, but I could not bring myself to share this part of my memory,” Severus explained. “I wish to preserve Lily’s modesty. Childbirth is a messy, embarrassing business.”

The colours coalesced back into sense after a few moments longer as Severus carefully held a bundle of mint-green blanket in his arms. “I recognise this child, and give her up to the powers of the world. Harriet Jane, may your path be joyous and your troubles few.” In the air before him, a spot shimmered and expanded, a piece of parchment forming in the glow. Severus caught it with one hand, the other holding baby Harriet close to him. He carefully transferred the bundle of baby to Lily’s waiting arms. He also passed her her wand from the bedside table.

What happened next was clearly rehearsed. They spoke in unison, unknown lilting words lost in the swirling light surrounding baby Harriet. She squalled, bunching up her tiny red face against the brightness.

Gradually, the light faded. “Did it work, Severus?” Lily asked, her voice hoarse. Her face was drawn and pale.

“What’s wrong with her?” older Harriet asked older Severus.

“Nothing. It was very advanced and draining magic, especially just following a birth,” he explained softly. “Nothing to worry about.”

Young Severus checked beneath the blankets. “It is done,” he intoned. “I’ll fetch Potter and Black.” He leaned down to kiss Lily chastely on her forehead and brushed a single pale finger over baby Harriet’s cheek- or was it now Harry’s? They watched as James met his son, and Sirius said the same words as Severus had, naming the baby Harry James. Seeing shaggy, grinning Sirius left Harriet with as much of an ache in her heart as seeing her parents again.

The last part of the memory saw a still pale and slightly shaky Lily show baby Harry his bedroom: all green and blue with white painted furniture, as Neville had said, with soft, squashy cuddly dragons and kneazles and a mobile of golden snitches. She caught sight of a spotty piggy bank on the chest of drawers. It was a pretty room, but Harriet didn’t remember it.

The real world formed around her again as they left the memories.

“I remember her,” Robin said quietly. “Lily… did I meet her?”

“A few times,” Severus said. “She took you to the park one day when you were three, not long before she died. I had to… take your mum somewhere.”

Robin smiled down at Harriet. “I played with you when you were a baby,” he remembered. “We’ve met before… I just didn’t realise it was you.”

He leant down to kiss her sweetly, and she clung to him.

 

 


	22. New experiences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another adult-rated chapter, so consider yourself warned!

It was the worst quidditch practice Harriet thought she’d ever witnessed. Ginny dropped the quaffle no less than six times, Ron missed every goal and even hit the goalpost once. She finally called an end to it when Jimmy managed to pelt a bludger straight into Anna’s face. She ennervated Anna and sent her off to Madam Pomfrey with a broken nose, Jimmy trailing behind her, apologising profusely.

“What the fuck was going on there?” she demanded of the rest of her players.

“Sorry,” Linda said, scrubbing at the ground of the pitch with the toe of her shoe. She’d managed to toss the quaffle at Harriet instead of to Ginny or Dean. “I just… got confused.”

“I don’t care what Ravenclaw’s seeker does, we’re not playing American rules,” Harriet reprimanded. “The seeker touching the quaffle is a penalty, and I can’t help touching it when you pelt it full force at my face.”

Linda looked like she might cry. “Okay,” Harriet said. “I’m guessing you’re all tired and cold and fed up. we’re not going to get anything else done today. On Tuesday we’ll work on drills, hopefully get back into the swing of things.” She waved her hands, scattering the players. Ron walked back up to the castle with her, bumping the tail of his broom along the ground. Harriet winced- no wonder it couldn’t fly straight. “What was happening out there?” she asked Ron.

He shrugged. “Not sure, mate. Just a bad day, I guess.”

“I can’t believe everyone on the team had a bad day, all at the same time.”

“Ginny started it,” Ron said defensively. “She hasn’t dropped the quaffle like that since she was a second year.”

“I know,” Harriet mused. “I was almost starting to think that she was doing it on purpose.”

Ron looked shocked. “Surely not!” he exclaimed. “She wouldn’t!” Harriet only shrugged. Ginny hadn’t let their quarrels affect quidditch before, but there was a first time for everything.

They passed through the massive front doors. “I’m going for a hot bath,” Harriet said. It was cold for November, and there had been just enough of a light drizzle at the beginning of practice to make everyone soggy and cold.

“Good idea,” Ron said. “Hey, fancy a game of chess or something after?”

“Oh, erm, no thanks,” Harriet said. “I… well…” she looked around fearfully and dropped her voice. “Robin’s visiting his dad. I don’t know if I’ll be at lunch or not.”

The tips of Ron’s ears flushed pink. “I still can’t believe you and… you know. Oh, Merlin, never mind. I’ll see you later.”

She hadn’t been expecting Robin to be in her rooms when she let herself in, but he’d dragged an armchair over to the windows and sat reading a ratty muggle paperback, idly chewing on the end of a pencil. He looked up as she came in. “Hey,” he greeted with a soft smile. “I hope you don’t mind… it’s just that you said that you had quidditch practice and I wanted to watch. Is the girl who fell off her broom okay?”

Harriet groaned. “Of all the things for you to see… that was the worst practice possible. Anna’ll be fine. Injuries are pretty common for beaters. She’s tough.”

Robin put his book on the floor and came over to hug her. She shied away. “I’m all wet and sweaty and disgusting,” she pointed out, unable to miss the flash of hurt that went through his eyes. “Let me get cleaned up, then we can cuddle.”

“Or… I could help you get cleaned up,” he suggested slyly. She looked puzzled, but he only grinned and pushed her towards the bathroom. Her heart skipped a beat when she realised what he meant.

He must have been used to Hogwarts baths, because he wasn’t in the least surprised by hers. She hadn’t imagined Severus as having a bath like this; she’d thought of him more as a spartan shower type of man. But Robin even knew to avoid the lemon-toilet-cleaner bubbles tap, instead picking pretty purple bubbles that Harriet thought might have spelt just faintly lilacy. His fingers fiddled clumsily with the lacings of her quidditch robes. She moved his hands aside and undid them with the ease of long practice, pushing them off her shoulders and into the laundry basket.

She was suddenly nervous, standing in front of him in her skintight t shirt and quidditch leggings. She wasn’t wearing all her padding, since it was just a practice. She blushed when he rested his hands on her hips, his fingers bracketing her waist. “I’m… a bit shy,” she admitted. “What if you think I’m ugly?”

“I could never think that,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful, Harriet.” His fingers began to ruche up the fabric of her top until he could rest most of hands against the bare flesh of her sides. She shivered. “You’re cold,” he said softly. “Come on, let’s get you into the bath. As much as I’d love to spend a long time unwrapping you, I don’t want you to get ill.” He skimmed his hands up her back, pulling the damp cotton with him, and tugged it over her head. He may have struggled with the quidditch robes, but he was obviously quite practiced at removing a bra, which he did with an effortless flick of his fingers. She gasped and caught the cups of the bra to her chest.

“Is this okay, Harriet?” he asked earnestly.

“Erm, maybe if you just didn’t look for a moment…” she bargained.

“Okay,” he agreed. “May I get in the bath with you?”

She eyed the large sunken tub. The bubbles were thick enough to hide everything, and the water deep enough to cover all of her from the neck down. She nodded, and he turned away and pulled his own t shirt over his head. She stripped off her boots and leggings and slipped into the water, sighing as the warm water caressed over her. The tension in her muscles from being on edge at practice began to melt away.

She stiffened again when the water shifted, making room for another person. Her heart pounded - Robin touching her arm wouldn’t normally make her suck in air, but a completely naked Robin touching a completely naked her… She could feel her body responding. She knew the signs now: the heaviness in her breasts, the odd tightness low in her tummy. “Kiss me?” she asked.

The tips of his hair were wet, and they clung to her cheeks when he pulled back after a sound kiss. The tightening in her belly was becoming warmth, and she wanted to be touched. She sighed in contentment and reached out to lay a palm flat on his chest. Like her, almost all of him was in the water, but she could tell that he wasn’t a hairy man by the smooth, taut flesh beneath the pads of her fingers. He groaned deep in his throat. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had,” he said. “You’re too irresistible.”

She ran her hand up until he could wrap her arms around his neck. He pulled her the rest of the way over, until she was perched on his knee. He still held her carefully away from his body. She trembled and gasped at the completely alien feeling of sitting in his lap with no clothing between them. He’d buried one hand in the hair at the top of her neck, working her messy braid loose. She leaned forward to press her lips to his again, darting her tongue out to run along his. He pressed her head towards him, angling his head to the side so he could plunder her mouth. They were both short of breath when they broke apart. “Harriet,” he said breathily, “I need to know that you’re okay with this. I need to know how far you want to go here.”

“I want you,” she insisted, trying to press closer to him. One hand on her hip held her a few inches from his body.

“You want sex?” he confirmed.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “I’m probably the only virgin seventh year left anyway…” She just hoped that he wouldn’t get fed up of her not having a clue what she was doing.

“You need to tell me to stop as soon as you want to,” he reminded her seriously.

She nodded and rubbed her hands across his shoulders, enjoying the warm, water-slicked muscle beneath her fingers. He released his hold on her hip and she easily slithered down onto his lap. Her eyes went wide at the heat of his cock rested against her thigh. “Is that a good reaction or a bad one?” he chuckled.

“Good, I think,” she replied. She wanted to touch it, but she didn’t want to be be too forward. She leaned forward to kiss his neck, smelling the woody scent of Robin above the flowery aroma of the bath.

“You’re a little sex kitten, aren’t you?” he teased. She didn’t get a chance to respond, other than with a gasp as his hands cupped her breasts, covering them completely. Her nipples pressed hard against his palms. He moved his hands to caress the hardened nubs, squeezing very gently. “This water’s in the way. How about we get dried off and go somewhere more comfortable?” he suggested. She was beyond disagreement: the arousal, probably helped along by the aphrodisiac, was throbbing through her, and they hadn’t even really done anything yet. She realised that she did want to be clean, so quickly soaped a flannel and scrubbed herself, paying particular attention to between her legs. Her cheeks pinkened slightly when she realised how wet she was, and not just from the water.

Robin boosted himself out of the bath and went to find a towel. It was Harriet’s first look at him unclothed, and she tried not to stare. She failed.

Slender was probably the best description of him. She’d known he was slim: she’d cuddled with him. He was small-boned, though, all limb and straight lines. There was only the lightest smattering of hair down his chest. And, of course, she couldn’t ignore his cock; her eyes were drawn to it. He looked impossibly long, certainly longer than her own male parts had been. She’d pushed her fingers up into herself; she wasn’t sure she take something that long inside her- was it meant to go in all the way? She thought it was. She swallowed hard. She hoped he wouldn’t decide he couldn’t be bothered dealing with her and her ignorance. Any other girl would know what to do, but she was still reasonably unsure of the mechanics of sex from a female point of view: she’d just never had enough interest to really listen to the other boys boast about it: she knew better than to believe macho posturing anyway.

He wrapped a towel around his narrow hips and held another out for her. Partly reluctant, partly excited, she climbed out of the bath and into the waiting towel, knowing that in the few seconds between the two, he could see all of her too. She was flushed with more than just the heat of the bathwater, which began magically draining as soon as it was no longer needed. She dried herself as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the fact that she knew Robin was watching her.

She looked up at him, unsure. A small smile played at the corners of his lips and he held a hand out to her. She took it, her heart giving an almost painful thud. Was this it? Were they really going to make love? Have sex? Fuck? What was the correct term?

He was gentle when he pushed her down onto the bed, burying his hands in her damp hair and pressing his mouth to hers, harder than he ever had before. Their teeth clashed as she pushed up towards him and he chuckled into the kiss. He came up for air. “I never would have thought you’d be like this,” he growled. “A couple of weeks ago you’d never even touched yourself.”

“Please, Robin,” she begged, desperate to be touched, to touch him. He smiled wolfishly and inched the towel down her body until her breasts were exposed to him. He ran a thumb over her nipple, his other arm supporting his weight over her. His head dipped, and she gasped as his heated lips closed around  the same nipple. Her back arched up towards him as the jolt of pleasure arced down her body to her clit.

“God, you’re so responsive,” he murmured. “No one’s even had that reaction to me before.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes hooded. “You’re not faking it, are you?” he asked quietly. “You don’t need to fake it.”

“Is it bad?” she wanted to know, her chest squeezing tight. “Should I be quieter?”

He crawled up the bed until he was lying next to her, his head propped up on his elbow. “No, kitten,” he assured her softly, “it’s a good thing. But I only want the reactions that are natural- I don’t want you to force anything. I’ve just never been with a girl that’s quite as… enthusiastic.”

She worried her lip between her teeth. “The potion I took… the contraceptive. It had an aphrodisiac.”

His eyes widened. “You took an aphrodisiac? Why?” he wanted to know. He sounded truly shocked, she decided.

“It… it was just what Severus gave me… it’s only supposed to activate when I start to, erm, get aroused…”

He cut her off. “My _dad_ gave you an aphrodisiac?” he spluttered. “What the actual fuck?”

“He gave me a contraceptive!” she tried to explain. “I only found out afterwards that it has an aphrodisiac… it’s usually used by someone about to lose their virginity, because it’s meant to make it easier, make it hurt less.”

Robin ran his hand through his hair with a sigh. “I suppose I should be grateful,” he said, “but it is a bit weird. Do you really want me, or just the sex to sate the potion?”

“I want you,” she said quietly, softly. “It’s not supposed to kick in until I’m already, erm, excited. I’m not walking around in a perpetual state of horniness. Please, Robin…” She reached over to cup his cheek in her hand.

“You want it?” he confirmed quietly. She nodded, and he caught her up in a sweet kiss.

It wasn’t long before his hands had strayed to her breasts again, clever fingers twirling around the hardened nubs of her nipples, gently kneading at the soft flesh. She scratched her short nails down his back, pushing her achy pussy against his thigh. He took one of her hands in a loose grip and brought it down to the silky hardness of his cock. She breathed sharply as his fingers delved into the curls at the apex of her thighs and found the hard button of her clit. She responded by ghosting the tips of her fingers over the head of his cock. He trembled, a shiver running down his back. “Sorry,” he mumbled against her neck. “It’s… been a while.”

With one swift movement, he’d rolled onto his back, his hands on her hips bringing her with him, so she straddled his thighs. “Harriet…” he whispered, then stopped, unsure of what to say.

She reached down between them to grasp at his hard cock, rising on her knees to position herself over him. His hands held her hips still, fingers gripping hard into her bones. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” he told her earnestly. “I can wait as long as you need to.”

“I want to,” she said, pushing down to try to take him into her.

“Wait,” he said, not unkindly. “You know this is probably going to hurt, right?” She nodded. “I want you as relaxed as possible first,” he insisted, tipping her off him again. “I can hang on.” He nudged her legs apart until he could kneel between them. His eyes swept down her body, and she shivered, feeling his gaze almost as a touch. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. He leaned forward to kiss her mouth, her neck, her breasts. She giggled when he dropped little pecks around her belly button, but as he went lower, she trembled. She thought she knew where he was headed.

Sure enough, he settled between her thighs. “Robin, you, you don’t have to,” she murmured brokenly.

“Hush, kitten. I want to,” he assured her. Her hips arched up as he used his thumbs to spread her lips, splaying them wide and displaying her pink inner folds to him. “Beautiful,” he repeated again, and she shivered as his breath swept across her.

She couldn’t have imagined the feeling of his hot mouth closing over her exposed clitoris. She cried out, trying with all her might to keep still and not push up against his mouth. His eyes flicked up to watch her face as he tried gently sucking, but her eyes were closed, her head thrown back. He flicked his tongue against the trapped bud, eliciting a breathy moan that sent the blood rushing straight to his cock. Carefully, he introduced a finger to her sodden channel as he swapped to slow, gentle licks to her pink folds and clit. She was tight, he noted, but that was to be expected. He’d never been with a virgin before, and whilst he was worried about hurting her, he was also quite endeared that she trusted him with this. He pushed a second finger alongside the first and sucked hard on her, her flavour flooding his mouth as she clenched down hard, her muscles spasming around him in climax as she whimpered. “Good girl,” he murmured soothingly. He crawled up her body again, holding her tight as she trembled.

He’d kept his fingers between her thighs, rubbing between her folds and around her entrance. “You ready?” he asked hoarsely. She nodded, spreading her leg a little wider for him.

“No, kitten, I want you on top,” he said. “That way, you can stop if it hurts, okay?” She was still feeling a little lethargic, but she let him help her up over his hips. She braced her hands on his chest as he spread her open, fingers slipping against her wetness. “Good girl,” he murmured as he positioned the heavy, throbbing head of his cock against her. “When you’re ready, just push down.”

She pressed down, more nervous now than she had been before. She wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with pain, and this couldn’t hurt that badly…

A gasp escaped her lips as the silky head of his cock pressed into her. There was a lot of stretching, she thought, but not the pain she’d been expecting. He groaned as she moved up a little, experimentally, his fingers scrabbling at the bedsheets. “You feel amazing,” he told her, exercising all his self control not to buck his hips and push farther in.

She grinned and sank down, wanting the full, open, stretched feeling she’d felt a moment ago. She went too fast, though, crying out at the burning hurt between her legs, falling all the way forward onto his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered into her ear, kissing the sensitive spot he’d found just below it, the spot that always made her shiver in pleasure. “Take your time, kitten.” He hoped she was okay; he could feel hot blood around his cock. He felt guilty- could he have prepared her better, he wondered? He'd have preferred it if she hadn't actually torn, just stretched around him.

She surprised him by flexing her hips, gasping as the torn flesh of her hymen was pulled. She bit down on her lip, trying instead to concentrate on the fullness, the delicious pressure of him moving against her, inside her. He snaked one arm between them, bracketing her clit between two fingers and squeezed lightly, causing her to throw back her head in pleasure. “Robin,” she breathed, “More, please.”

His breath hitched in his chest, hearing her say his name. Wrapping himself around her to keep them locked together, he rolled them in the big bed until he was pressed above her. As smoothly as he could, he rocked out of her and pressed back in. She found herself bringing her knees up almost on an instinct, opening herself to him, lessening the pressure of her tightness around him and letting him go a little deeper. She arched her back, pressing her hungry clit against his body, relishing the crinkle of his hair against it as he pumped into her, still slow and gentle. Even the pain now felt delicious; a sharp bite whenever he moved, pushing her higher. She didn’t mind when he moved faster, bucking her hips up to meet him and clawing at his back.

He latched his mouth to her shoulder, nipping and sucking as he slammed himself into her and stilled, enjoying the clench of her walls around his throbbing, pulsing cock.

“Was that good?” she asked in a small voice a few moments later, when he was still panting over her.

“It was perfect,” he assured her. She hissed in pain as he slid out, and he winced when he looked down to see his cock streaked in red. “How much does it hurt?”

“Not too bad,” she said. “Regrowing bones hurts more.”

He laughed, flopping down next to her and drawing her into the circle of her arms. She snuggled close, her head against his damp chest, where she could still hear his heart thumping double time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Harriet and Robin moved very fast there, but Harriet just kept informing me that she was sick of being the last virgin in the year...


	23. Career advice

Harriet toyed with her scrambled eggs. She felt like it should be different, like people should treat her differently now, or that the world would be brighter, or she’d understand it in a new way, now that she’d had sex. But it was like any other Monday morning as Ron talked over her head to Dean, a mouthful of toast spluttering everywhere. More and more, Harriet was used to the quiet solitude of her room. Her schoolwork had certainly improved away from the distractions of Gryffindor tower. Perhaps all seventh years should have their own bedrooms, she mused.

“Potter, Weasley, please join me in my office after breakfast,” McGonagall instructed, pausing by the Gryffindor table for just a moment on her way to the head table.

Ron, paused mid sentence, looked alarmed. “What’d we do wrong?” he wanted to know, eyes wide and toast drooping. “I haven’t been caught out after curfew in forever…”

“No idea,” Harriet sighed.

Hermione frowned at her. “Are you okay, Harriet?” she asked. “We barely saw you all weekend…”

Yes, Harriet wanted to snap. You barely saw me because you were off being prefects in Hogsmeade, not finding out about how Dumbledore’s taking other people to your home. And you aren’t the one with the sore, bleeding cunt. She didn’t though, and, to be fair, she had no idea about the state of Hermione’s nether regions. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Just tired. I was up late last night, reading.” That much, at least was true: whilst spending the day lounging in bed or in front of the fire with Robin, she hadn’t had much opportunity for study.

They waited until McGonagall had left breakfast before they ambled out of the great hall and up the stairs to her office. Hermione darted off to the library, even though she couldn’t help a curious little look back at them.

“Come in,” McGonagall called when Harriet nervously rapped on her door. The last time she’d been in here, she’d been wielding her mutilated Firebolt. At least she knew her Peregrine was safely stop her wardrobe in her spell-protected room. Ron decided that this was the perfect moment to begin practicing being a gentleman, and ushered her in first. She grimaced at him, not prepared to act the lady.

“Ah, Potter, Weasley. Take a seat,” she said, waving them towards to straight back chairs with the small nod to comfort in a lumpy tartan cushion on each. Harriet wondered what McGonagall’s private quarters were like: she knew from visiting Severus that his classroom and his living room were two very different places.

“Now,” McGonagall when they were seated, “the applications for auror training have just been sent though. I know you two were keen, so I thought you might like to get a start on them.” She slid two thick sheaves of parchment across the desk at them. Ron grasped his eagerly.

Harriet took hers a little more slowly. She leafed through the application form, asking for personal statements and examples of essay work as well as recommendations from their teachers. McGonagall cut into her thoughts. “Now, Weasley, you need to watch your Potions marks, and I can’t lie, your Transfigurations could do with a bit more effort. But I’m happy to recommend you, nevertheless. Potter, I can’t see your application being a problem: your marks have climbed significantly this year. I’m pleased to see that you’ve finally knuckled down and shown us what you were capable of all this time.”

Harriet chewed on her lip. Now was as good a time as any, she supposed. “I don’t think I want to be an auror anymore,” she said quietly.

“What?” Ron burst out. “But you’ve always wanted to be an auror! We were going to be a team, fight the Death Eaters together!”

McGonagall was frowning too. “Are you sure about this, Potter?” she asked, her accent broadening slightly with the surprise. “You’d make a very good auror, with your talent for Defence.”

Harriet shrugged. “It’s kind of dangerous, I guess,” she said. “I mean, my parents were dead before they even hit 23, and they weren’t even aurors, just members of the Order. What are my chances of surviving even that long if I’m deliberately putting myself in danger?”

She didn’t add that she could now imagine a life after Hogwarts; a comfortable, happy life. Where she and Robin would have a little house somewhere, get married, and maybe, in a few years, have a child or two. He’d told her yesterday that he wanted to do a Master’s degree, then, maybe, a doctorate. He had plans and ideas for his life, and they didn’t involve throwing himself into the path of homicidal wizards. She hoped that hers wouldn’t either. The image of she and Robin sitting before their own fireplace, like they’d sat before hers the afternoon before, was endearing. She wanted to be able to climb into bed with him at night, not see him leave again, because he had lectures the next morning, and lived in Manchester, not Hogwarts.

“Life is dangerous, Miss Potter,” McGonagall pointed out. “As you say, your mother and father died at the hands of a dark wizard. I might suggest that the best way to protect yourself, and others, is to ensure that you’re as well trained in defence as you can be.” Harriet nodded slowly, but still, she couldn’t shake the picture of Kingsley knocking on the front door of a house to tell Robin that she’d been killed. Before, she hadn’t had any family to speak of, no one to really care if she lived or died. Her parents and Sirius were dead, after all. But she hoped to be family to Robin. Or to somebody, at least. She could only hope that Robin would actually want to settle down like that.

“No,” she suddenly burst out after a few moments of careful consideration. “No, I don’t think that actively chasing Voldemort is the best way to stay safe, and I don’t think it’s the best way to keep other people safe. I want everyone to be able to defend themselves, not have to rely on aurors turning up in time. Wouldn’t it be better to teach everyone?”

“Well, yes,” McGonagall agreed hesitantly, “but it’s not that easy…”

“Why not?” Harriet demanded. “Why shouldn’t it be that easy?”

Her professor sighed deeply. “You have the idealism of youth, Potter,” she informed her wearily. “We teach children as best we can here. What makes you think that they would be willing to study more when they’re adults?”

“Voldemort wasn’t a risk when most of them were at school,” Harriet pointed out. She slid the application form back across McGonagall’s desk. “I’m not going to be an auror,” she reiterated, more firmly this time.

“Then what will you do?” McGonagall asked.

Harriet shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. But not an auror.”

The sigh from McGonagall was long-suffering. She was looking very old, Harriet thought. “Very well. Weasley, do you still wish to pursue training?”

Ron looked startled. He stared down at the papers in his lap. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he said quietly.

“Then we may as well begin the application now. Potter, go away and think on your career path. Come back to see me when you’re decided.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harriet said, standing. Ron looked after her almost longingly, but stayed, accepting the quill McGonagall offered him. Ron never remembered to bring a quill.

Harriet’s first instinct was to go back to her room, but she knew that she had been in there almost all weekend, and she had no desire to be pulled up for it by Dumbledore again. A least the library was quiet during the day, with only sixth and seventh years having free periods. She found Hermione tucked in a little nook in the back, the light from the blue and green stained-glass window lending her skin an odd, otherworldly cast. She smiled at Harriet and waved at the seat next to her, inviting the other girl to join her. Harriet pulled out her charms textbook and began an essay on creative uses of basic charms- she’d chosen a tickling charm used defensively to distract your opponent, whereas it was usually nothing more than a practical joke.

Hermione wiggled in her seat, drawing Harriet’s attention. The head girl raised an eyebrow. “So?” she whispered, “what was it? And where’s Ron?”

“Auror applications came in,” Harriet whispered back. “Ron’s doing his with McGonagall now.”

“You doing yours later?” Hermione asked, bending over her book again.

“No,” Harriet said quietly. “Don’t make a big deal of it or anything, but I don’t want to be an auror anymore.”

To her credit, Hermione didn’t make anything of it at all. She didn’t even look up. “I kind of suspected,” she admitted, “when you said about Death Eaters not being your business to deal with.”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed.

They worked in silence for some time. There was only a quarter of an hour left before Transfiguration when Harriet spoke. “What do you want to do when you leave?” she asked Hermione. She realised, bizarrely, that she didn’t know. It had always been assumed that she and Ron would go on to auror training, but Hermione had never really mentioned it.

“I’ve been offered a traineeship with Faulks and Fitzsimmons,” she said. When Harriet looked blank, she explained. “It’s the leading wizarding law firm,” she said. “I’ll only be a clerk to begin with, alongside studying with a solicitor, but I’m hoping that I can rise pretty quickly. There’s a lot of injustices in the world that I’d like to correct. It was that or become a mediwitch, but I’m not so great with stuff like splinching- it makes me queasy.”

Harriet smiled. She could imagine Hermione as the warrior for the underdog in society. “Well, I know where to go if I ever need legal help,” she said softly. “Come on, we should get going if we don’t want to be late. That fourth floor staircase has been a right bugger lately- it never points the way I want it to.”

Ron ambled into Transfiguration still chatting to McGonagall. Harriet felt a little tug of something like jealousy. Joining the aurors was always _her_ thing; Ron had followed along. Now, though, Ron hadn’t followed her away. He’d always been a follower, she thought: following her, or following popular opinion. But now he’d made his own decision. She had no idea whether to be proud or angry.

For once, Ron managed every spell McGonagall set them first time. He left the lesson for lunch with a wide grin on his face. “Did’ya see that armchair I turned into?”

“The pattern was wonky,” Hermione informed him tartly. She was mostly put out that her armchair had sported a lovely Hogwarts crest from her robes. Harriet hadn’t managed to get beyond a straight-backed rung chair. Not even a cushion. McGonagall had informed her that she needed to trust in her own abilities. Confidence, she’d said. Harriet lacked confidence.

She idly considered the notion as she munched her way through lunch. Oddly, these days lessons made her hungrier than quidditch ever could: the magical exertion seemed to be greater than any physical exercise could be. “Do you think I’m confident?” she blurted out, interrupting Hermione’s discussion the relative uses of transfiguring into patterned versus plain chairs.

“What?” Ron asked, coming out of his stupor- apparently, he’d been doing nothing but gamely nodding along to Hermione’s monologue.

“Confidence,” Harriet repeated. “McGonagall said I needed more confidence. Am I confident?”

“Erm, dunno,” was Ron’s only answer.

Hermione tipped her head to the side. “You’re confident about what you know, like defence. But you’re not arrogant- it’s not like you go around saying how amazing you are or anything.”

She’d always made a concerted effort to avoid saying that she was amazing: she was just another person. It was the rest of the world who’d foisted  ‘the boy who lived’ and ‘the chosen one’ on her. “I don’t want to be amazing,” she grumbled. “I just want to be Harriet.”

“Well,” Hermione said, digging her spoon into her sticky toffee pudding, “that’s my point.” Harriet still wasn’t convinced that McGonagall had wanted her to go around singing her own praises.

They left lunch at the same time as Lupin. “Professor,” Harriet said on a sudden whim, “May I come and speak to you? About some… career advice.”

Lupin looked at her with his usual soft-eyed kindness. “Of course. Have you got a free lesson last thing? Or perhaps this evening, after dinner?”

“Last lesson would be brilliant. Thanks!” Harriet grinned at him before trotting off after Ron, who was desperate for another fly around. She knew she’d be glad of the fresh air. “Hey, Ron,” she said, “before we fly, d’you mind if I try to see if Dumbledore’s in? I’ve got something to ask him.”

“Huh? Yeah, whatever,” Ron said, shifting from foot to foot. He strode after her to the headmaster’s office, easily keeping pace with her hurrying steps. Harriet tried the last password she’d known for the gargoyle. It seemed to consider the password for a moment, making her think that it had been changed, but eventually stepped aside. The stairs obligingly began to move upwards.

She knocked hesitantly at Dumbledore’s door. “Come in, Harriet, Ron,” the headmaster called. Harriet checked that her occlumentic shields were firmly in place.

“That’s plain creepy,” Ron muttered.

Dumbledore sat surrounded by sheaves of paper. “What can I do for you, children?” he asked mildly.

“Professor, I wanted,” Harriet began, “well, I found out over the summer that I’d inherited some properties on my birthday. I was hoping that I could go and have a look at the couple. I’ve got a house in Edinburgh, I think, and… and the house in Godric’s Hollow.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said. “Well, perhaps at Christmas…”

“I was hoping to go sooner,” Harriet replied stubbornly, holding her ground. “Maybe next weekend.”

“During the school term?” Dumbledore asked, an edge to his voice.

Harriet nodded. “Yes, sir. It wouldn’t take long, just a day. They are my properties, after all, and I should be looking after them. It’s my responsibility. And I was hoping that perhaps I could take some people with me. Just in case Voldemort is lurking..”

Dumbledore sighed and considered the request for a long couple of minutes. Ron shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but Harriet made a concerted effort to stand still and stare the headmaster down. He wouldn’t agree if he thought she’d back down. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will enquire about an escort for you, and I should imagine that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would accompany you.”

Harriet nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Sir,” she said, and dragged Ron out of the room and down to fetch their brooms. She knew she’d be peppered with questions from Ron as they walked down into the grounds.

A flight over the lake and the forest, without the worry of coaching her quidditch players relaxed Harriet, leaving her feeling refreshed and ready to face her future. Lupin was ushering the last of his third years out of his classroom when Harriet showed up. “Ah, Harriet, come in. Just give me a moment to get cleared up, and we’ll go through to my office. It’s a bit more comfortable.” She leaned against a desk, watching him carefully levitate a tank of grindylows back to their shelf. One of the third years had left their textbook: she idly flicked through it, surprised when it fell open easily on page three hundred and ninety four.

“Professor,” he asked, “how do you manage the full moon these days? You haven’t missed a class yet this term.”

Lupin smiled wanly. “There have been a few advances in wolfsbane over the last two years,” he explained. “I can recover a little better, a little faster.” He held open the door to his office, and waved Harriet through. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Harriet wondered how best to start. “Auror applications came in today,” she said.

“I see,” Lupin said. “Well, I’ll be more than happy to write you a glowing reference. Your performance in Defence is completely unparalleled.”

“No, Sir… you don’t understand. I don’t want to be an auror anymore.”

Several beats of stunned silence followed. “But, Harriet,” Lupin eventually worked up to saying, “You’ve always wanted to be an auror. Well ever since you found out about them.”

“Things change,” Harriet said with a shrug. “I’ve changed- not just into a girl, but in other ways too. I don’t know if I just grew up, or becoming a girl had something to do with it. But the idea of spending my life constantly hunting down people… I don’t like it.” She didn’t mention that she’d like a reasonable degree of certainty that she’d return home on any given day. “But I don’t really know what else to do. So I was wondering: what other careers can you do when you’re good at defence?”

Lupin thought for a few minutes. “Curse breaking might suit you, but you haven’t done Ancient Runes, have you? No, I thought not. You won’t be able to make up four years of study to take a NEWT in that in just a year, through you could study it part time when you have a job if you wanted. The same goes for ward specialists, and they tend to need Arithmancy as well. There are professional duelists- it’s still recognised as a sport. Your name might help you there…”

None of those sounded too good to Harriet. Curse breaking sounded interesting- Bill seemed to enjoy it, but if it required runes, it was out. “What about teaching?” she asked, suddenly shy. She didn’t want him to think she was after his job. “Not here- it would be weird teaching people I went to school with. But maybe something like giving private lessons?”

Lupin frowned in thought. “I’ve never heard of it being done, but that’s not to say that it couldn’t be, although you’d need a place to give the lessons, and the capital to support yourself until you started making money. To be honest I’m not sure people would be happy, being taught by a school leaver.” He stood, and crossed to his desk, shuffling through piles of paper. “But…” he said, still shuffling, “I received something that might be of interest the other day. Ah, here!”

He offered Harriet a parchment flyer. “I’d have given it to you, but I thought you were going into auror training. You’re the only student in your year who’d be good enough to try for a place.”

Harriet looked at the flyer. A university-level defence programme based at the Wizarding colleges. “The Wizarding colleges?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard of them.”

“They’re very exclusive- they take only twenty students a year, from all over the world- five each for Defence, Potions, Magical Sciences and Charms. Professor Flitwick attended, from what I recall, although some years ago. You would earn a magical mastery in two years of quite intense study and research. Your power levels are definitely strong enough, and your knowledge and written work should about pass muster as well. It’s worth an application, if you’re interested in teaching. It would hold considerably more weight than a NEWT, no matter how good.”

Harriet looked down at the bit of paper. “It’s a good opportunity, Harriet,” Lupin said quietly. “If nothing else, it would give you two years to think about a future career if you get in. If you don’t… well, we can think of something else. Unless I’m much mistaken, the Potter vaults should cover you for a bit whilst you decide on what to do.”

“Where is it?” she asked. She’d never heard of any magical university at all, let alone in Britain.

“It’s based in Lancaster. It used to be in a little farmhouse in the Pendle district, but the students complained of not enough company. You must have heard of the Pendle witch trials?”

“Erm, I usually slept through History of Magic,” Harriet admitted sheepishly. “It all seemed to be about Goblin rebellions.”

Lupin threw back his head and laughed. “Professor Binns never changes!” he said. “Well, the Pendle witches were burnt at the stake. Only one was really a witch- she escaped, of course. The area has always had a strong connection with magical folk ever since, even if it’s not an exclusively wizarding area.”

Lancaster was quite close to Manchester, Harriet realised. “I’ll send for an application,” she said with a grin.

Lupin put his hand on her shoulder. “Good girl,” he said. “I’d like to think you have a fighting chance.”


	24. Myrtle's visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, this one's a bit shorter than usual. Work's been really busy lately, so I haven't had as much time to write. Trying to keep to my 3x a week postings, but it may have to slip a bit if things don't calm down soon!

The uncomfortable wetness blooming in her knickers informed Harriet that her body was, once again, reminding her that she was a girl now. It had been bad enough dealing with the hurt of lost virginity- it had hurt so much to pee that night that she’d contorted herself strangely in front of her mirror to get a good enough view to heal her torn sex.

“I’ll meet you at lunch,” she blurted out to Ron and Hermione as soon as they escaped the Charms classroom.

“Where’re you going?” Ron asked, wide eyed. “If it’s something good, I want to come.”

Harriet laughed, unable to help herself despite her discomfort. “Nothing good,” she said. “Girl stuff.”

Ron scrunched his nose. “Eurgh. See you in a bit, mate.” Harriet just dashed down the stairs. The nearest bathroom was Myrtle’s: she really hoped that the ghost wasn’t too upset this week. She just wanted to get cleared up; it felt like the blood might drip down her leg.

The strange, damp, neglected smell of Myrtle’s bathroom always reminded her of the disgusting taste of polyjuice. She couldn’t see Myrtle anywhere, so she ducked into the furthest stall and yanked her tights down. There was a thick, wet smear of blood in the inside of her knickers, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She quickly spelled them clean and pulled a pad from the bottom of her schoolbag.

She jumped when the door to the bathroom slammed open, then reverberated shut. She froze. No one came into Myrtle’s bathroom, and especially not someone taking in big, gulping lungfuls of air like a person afraid of drowning… or someone fighting off tears.

“Myrtle?” Malfoy’s voice caught as he called out. Harriet very slowly let her schoolbag settle on the floor. She didn’t particularly want Malfoy to know she was here.

A splash from the cubicle next door heralded Myrtle’s arrival. “What’s the matter, Draco?” she simpered.

A slithering, then a thump. Malfoy’s voice sounded lower down now, like he was sitting on the floor. Harriet tried to slow her breathing, make as little noise as possible. “I got a letter from my father this morning, Myrtle. It doesn't get any better, no matter what I do,” Malfoy complained, his voice quiet and almost weak. “Why doesn’t it get better? It should get easier. I did what Dumbledore said, I resisted. I did the ‘right thing’. But now my family’s in disgrace, my father hates me, and my mother is back to not caring. She won’t answer my letters, just keeps sending more packages of sweets. What am I meant to do?”

“Oh, there, there, Draco,” the ghost girl soothed. “It’ll be okay.”

“How?” Malfoy asked, his voice muffled now, as if he had his head in his hands. “How will it get better? Unless I manage to fulfil the Dark Lord’s wishes, I’ll be hunted down, tortured, killed.”

Harriet bit her lip sharply to keep her gasp in, and tasted a copper droplet of blood. Myrtle, though, didn’t sound too discomfited. “Well, if you die, you can come and live with me,” she pointed out. “Do you think ghosts can have babies?” she wondered, drifting away and plopping down into the pipes again.

The sound of flesh hitting stone and the crack of bones would have covered Harriet’s astonished exclamation, even if Malfoy hadn’t sworn loudly after he’d punched the wall. A few minutes later, the door slammed again, and Harriet was alone. She stood stock still until she’d counted to a hundred in her mind to make sure he really had gone before she finally pulled up her knickers, smoothed the skirt and her robes, and left the stall. There was a small smear or blood on the wall near the door.

“That took forever!” Ron complained as she slipped into a place in the great hall. “What were you doing, chatting to Myrtle?” He’d filled her plate for her, she noted with a smile.

“Kind of,” she replied. “Can’t say anything here. My room, after lunch?” She glanced over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was nowhere in sight. It had sounded like he’d broken his hand, so Harriet’s best bet was the hospital wing. She wondered how she could slip away from Ron and Hermione for long enough to check. She realised with a start that she’d need to go up to see Madam Pomfrey anyway, or at least her cupboard full of painkilling potions and the top shelf, which was given over to contraceptive potions.

“Ooh, yes,” Hermione said. “I wanted some quiet work time anyway. Let me go and grab my books from my room first though?”

The head girl’s rooms weren’t too far from the infirmary, Harriet mused. “Yeah, sure,” she said, “as long as I can take a little trip to the hospital wing too.”

Ron looked confused. “Hospital wing?” he asked. “Why?”

Hermione gave a dramatic sigh. “It’s okay, Ron, you just keep right on living with your head in the sand. Merlin help your future wife, assuming one’ll have you.”

“Hey!” Ron riposted, outraged. “Who’s to say I’m not the kindest and most considerate of blokes?”

Hermione just raised her eyebrow as Harriet stifled a giggle.

She hadn’t been lying when she’d said that head girl’s room wasn’t much. It was bigger than the original dimensions of Harriet’s room, but not by much, and the living room she shared with the head boy was clearly designed more for counselling students than spending any real time in relaxing. The sofa certainly didn’t look overly comfortable. “Come on, then,” Hermione said, shouldering her bulging book bag. “Hospital wing, then you can tell us what’s going on now.”

The cupboard Harriet needed was just inside the door to the infirmary, not near the beds. Even so, a quick glance through into the ward was enough to tell her that all the beds were empty, their curtains pulled back neatly and sheets tucked perfectly into place. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen, but as she had no patients at the moment, it was no surprise. Perhaps Malfoy had been and gone; Madam Pomfrey did boast that she could heal broken bones in no more than moments. Harriet sighed and opened the cupboard, pulling out a handful of the painkillers and reaching up for a bottle of contraceptive. “What’s that stuff?” Ron asked curiously.

“Potions for period pains, and anti-pregnancy potions,” Hermione explained shortly. “Harriet, why do you keep staring at the beds? There’s no one there.”

“Looking for Malfoy. Come on, let’s go to my room; I’ll explain there.” Quite aside from being heard, she was becoming aware that she probably did need one of the painkillers, and soon, besides which, she’d rather tell the tale from the comfort of her favourite chair.

It didn’t take long to recount the events in Myrtle’s bathroom to her friends; although Ron did make some rather interesting noises of disgust at Myrtle’s questions about the fertility of ghosts. Harriet wished she could have made some of the same sounds when Myrtle had said it. Hermione wrinkled her nose, but pointed out that Myrtle probably did get lonely, since the other ghosts wouldn’t really fraternise with her, not least because she spent the majority of her time haunting a bathroom.

“What does he mean, he ‘did the right thing’?” Hermione wanted to know. “It sounds like it was something Dumbledore wanted him to do.”

“I have no idea,” Harriet said with a sigh. She’d hoped that perhaps Ron and Hermione might have some insight, but so far, Ron was still completely focused on trying not to image ghosts having sex, and Hermione seemed to be coming up blank.

“Well,” the head girl said, “we knew that he was in disgrace with his family anyway- he said he spent the summer with Bellatrix Lestrange because he was in trouble of some kind. Lucius is out of Azkaban and stuck at home under house arrest…” She lapsed into thoughtful silence. “So, there was something he was meant to do, I guess, something for Voldemort, but Dumbledore told him not to.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” Harriet snapped. “But what is it that’s so important that Voldemort would kill him for not doing it?”

“Mate, I think you-know-who’d probably kill someone for not fetching his lunch on time,” Ron offered. “But maybe he was meant to get you, somehow?”

“Maybe,” Harriet mused. But Malfoy hadn’t been launching kidnap attempts, had he? He’d been trying to get in her knickers, not lure her into Voldemort's clutches. Just as she was turning it over, Dobby popped into the room, standing perfectly in the middle of the coffee table, his ears almost vibrating with excitement.

“Miss Potter is having an admirer!” he crowed, holding out the bouquet of pink roses almost as big as the overexcited house elf.

“Wow, Robin’s a bit of a romantic, then?” Ron asked dryly. “Sending you flowers.”

Dobby shook his head with glee. “No, these are not coming from Master Robin!”

Harriet took the bouquet and extracted a note from within the hot-house-fragrant blooms. These were nothing like the little bunch of daisies Robin had given her. These were overblown, ostentatious. She read the note. “Malfoy,” she said. “He says that he hopes I might have had time to consider his offer.”

“His offer?” Hermione asked. “What offer?”

She truly had grown apart from her friends, Harriet thought. She never would have neglected to mention the fact that Blaise Zabini had attempted to rape her, nor Malfoy’s subsequent visit, before this year. But now… well, she’d gone to Severus, not to her friends. “Oh, he reckoned that I’d be interested in him because he’s rich and powerful or some such,” she said with a shrug. For once, the Hogwarts gossip mill hadn’t been spinning and so the tale had remained unknown amongst the students, although the staff all seemed to know, if they way they glared at Blaise meant anything.

“That’s nothing new,” Ron grunted, having taken possession of the other item in Dobby’s possession, a plate of cauldron cakes. “Come on, he’s been eying you up since the start of the term, before he even knew who you were.”

“But you’d have thought that he’d give up as soon as he knew it was me.”

“Malfoy’s always been known as a womaniser,” Hermione pointed out, “and he doesn’t always limit his romantic activities to his own house. I know that Lavender’s slept with him, and I’m pretty sure Fay has too. And most of Ravenclaw.”

Ron screwed up his nose. “Please tell me I haven’t had Malfoy’s sloppy seconds?” he asked morosely. “I’ve had Lavender and Fay too.”

“Well then, you probably have,” Hermione informed him tartly. “And they probably thought he was better in bed too. It’s not like you have much to recommend you.”

“Oy, that was uncalled for!” Ron exclaimed.

“Hang on,” Harriet said, “you two have _slept together_?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yeah,” she said. “Just the once...I mean, it’s normal here, not like in the muggle world. My parents would probably have freaked if they knew I lost my virginity at fourteen, but, hey…”

“Fourteen’s normal in the wizarding world, though,” Ron said. “Charlie says he was a first year when he did, but I’m not sure whether to believe that… Charlie’s not always on the best of terms with reality.” He squinted at Harriet “You know, I never caught you at it, though. When was your first time?”

Harriet knew she was probably more pink than the roses. “Well, erm… you know, just, erm, sometime, I can’t really…”

Ron gawped. “You’re a virgin?” he asked with surprise.

“No!” Harriet exclaimed. “It was, erm, last week.” She stared intently into the gigantic bunch of roses. The sweet smell was getting too much. She laid them on the desk, not caring that they probably should be in water.

Ron guffawed, but Hermione wasted no time in delivering a sound thump to the side of the head. “Shut up, Ronald,” she said. “Harriet was raised muggle, just like me. And at least she saved it for someone she cared about, and not bloody Lavender Brown.”

“Oh, and you can talk, Miss I-shagged-Victor-Krum?”

Hermione huffed in annoyance. “Look, we’re getting off topic. What’s up with Malfoy? Is he trying to kill Harriet or sleep with her?”

Ron shrugged. “No clue,” he said, still not being able to shed his grin completely. “Sounds like Dumbledore knows, though, so I reckon it’s probably okay.”

Harriet didn’t think that Dumbledore knowing about it necessarily made it okay, but she doubted that she’d get any further with Ron and Hermione. She resolved to ask Severus later on. “Let’s just do some work,” she suggested. “I really need to practice that wandless magic that Lupin wants us to do, I’m rubbish at it, and I just know that it’d be a good thing to know for my Wizarding colleges interview… well, if I get an interview.” She’d received her application form yesterday morning, and had diligently filled in all the easy bits, leaving just the essay on why she wanted to attend the college left to do, plus get her references from Lupin and Dumbledore. She really hoped Dumbledore would give her a good reference; she knew Lupin would.

“It’s impossible, mate, I’m sure of it,” Ron said dismissively. “Wandless magic can’t be controlled.”

“It’s not impossible!” Hermione reprimanded. “My wand almost hovered last time I tried. And powerful witches and wizards can do it. It’s just really hard, and really tiring. Anyway, Harriet, mind if I raid your bookshelves?”

“Be my guest,” Harriet said dryly. Sometimes she wondered if Hermione was her friend just to get access to reading material these days. As for herself, she hardly touched them.

 

 


	25. A discussion with Severus

Harriet flopped down into her armchair. She was exhausted. She’d succeeded in rolling her wand to her feet in defence, and had managed to apparate between her hoops in the great hall after dinner- the test was next Saturday. And she still didn’t have a clue what Malfoy was up to.

She lazily swished her wand to cast a _tempus_ charm. It was just after eight, not a ridiculous time to go visiting. Curfew wasn’t for more than an hour yet, so Severus was likely to be home unless he was overseeing detention.

The floo powder was getting low, she noticed. She’d have to ask Severus for more. She stepped into the green flames, and back out again into Severus’s quiet living room. “Hello?” she called. “Anyone here?” No answer. She wandered down the hall to the bedrooms, peeking in at each of the open doors, but neither Severus nor Robin seemed to be there. Slightly disheartened, and inexplicably lonely, she wandered back to the living room, curling up on the sofa and taking her Charms textbook out of her bag. She knew she probably should have practiced wandless magic more, but even the idea made her head hurt. Reading was definitely the safer option.

She was confused and woolly-headed when Severus gently shook her awake. She cracked open her eyes to look at him crouched beside the sofa. “Is everything okay, Harriet?” he asked quietly. “How long have you been here?”

“I’m fine,” she yawned. “What time is it?”

“Ten minutes to nine,” he said.

“Been here about half an hour… sorry…”

Severus straightened with a grimace. “There’s no need to apologise,” he said. “You are welcome at any time. Now, I have a potion which needs some attention; you may stay here or come to my lab as you choose.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said, unfolding herself and rescuing her Charms book from where it had slipped off her knee. Severus nodded and gestured for her to follow him down to the door at the very end of the corridor.

For all that she knew Severus much better now, and knew that his quarters didn’t in any way resemble his classroom, she was still expecting a dungeon-like lab, with plenty of pickled eyeballs and torturous looking instruments. Instead, she followed him into a room mostly filled with a very large marble-topped table, a large, warm fireplace and shelving stretching across one of the long walls, with ingredients and potions neatly labelled, but no creepy animal parts in sight. He pulled out a tall stool for her to sit on as he removed a cover from a large cauldron sitting on an enchanted fire, like the ones the students used in lessons, and began to stir it with careful precise movements. “How is your application for the Wizarding colleges coming?” he asked. She’d told him about her plan to apply on Monday evening, at their occlumency lesson.

“I was going to write the essay over the weekend,” she said, smoothing her fingers over the cool marble, tracing the grey veins in the smooth icy-white stone. Her head still felt a little fuzzy. “Severus, why is Malfoy in disgrace with his family?”

She could have been imagining it, but she was sure that Severus stiffened. “How do you know that he is?” he asked smoothly.

“He said he was,” she explained. “Weeks ago, he said that he stayed with Bellatrix Lestrange over the summer, because his father was angry with him. And…” she hesitated, not sure how much she should say, but decided to press on. Severus hadn’t yet given her any sign that he wasn’t trustworthy, “and I heard him talking to Moaning Myrtle today in her bathroom. He was upset, saying that he’d failed something that Voldemort might kill him and his family hated him. He… I think he punched the wall and broke his hand, but he seemed fine again in defence. I couldn’t see him in the hospital wing.”

“I healed Draco’s hand,” Severus admitted. “You won’t often find my Slytherins going to Poppy; they tend to prefer a healer that they trust.”

“So, what is it?” she asked. “What did he do?”

Severus shook his head. “I cannot betray his trust,” he told her kindly, “just as I would not betray yours. You must simply believe me that he was faced with a terrible task; he made the choice that is right for his soul and for the wizarding world, but one that will forever drive him away from his family.”

She sighed deeply. That didn’t tell her much. “How do you know he’s not going to change his mind?” she asked as Severus expertly chopped dandelion root. “He sounded pretty upset.”

“He knows that entering the Dark Lord’s service is a path that cannot be trodden lightly,” Severus told her, “and he is horrified by the task that he was given. Draco is not made to be a Death Eater: he is gentle at heart.”

Harriet scoffed. Malfoy, gentle? He was a bully, and she informed Severus of this. Severus shook his head sadly. “He is a product of his upbringing, as are we all. He was taught that strength comes from belittling others. He is trying his best to learn another way.”

Harriet toyed with a mortar and pestle on the shelf next to her. “He asked me out,” she said quietly after a few moments of silence.

“It would be a good match for you. The Malfoy family is powerful and influential.”

“But what about Robin?” she asked, shocked.

Severus sighed as he removed his potion from the heat. “Robin is a squib,” he said, as if explaining to a child. “He will never be accepted nor respected by the wizarding world. Look how Mr. Filch is treated; would you wish that on yourself? To be ridiculed and reviled by those you respect? Trust me, Harriet, I know how it feels; I’m the bat of the dungeons. Don’t make your life harder than it has to be. Take Draco up on his offer: Robin will survive.”

Harriet tried to swallow around the lump rising in the back of her throat. Of course she didn’t want to live life like Filch. But surely, Robin could never be like the school caretaker? Filch was old and grumpy and stupid.

Severus interrupted her thoughts. “I should imagine that you are currently thinking that Robin and Argus Filch have nothing in common. You are wrong. Think on the scorn and derision heaped on Argus through his life, and then wonder why he is as he is. As I said of Draco, we are all products of our upbringing. I have tried to shield Robin from it, but if he attempts to make his life in the wizarding world, he will be snubbed. You would be better served by an alliance with the Malfoy family, who have enough political and magical power to back you up. Lucius is in disgrace; it would not be too hard for Draco to take control of the house’s destiny, and you could influence the position of one of the oldest and most respecting wizarding families in Britain.”

She nodded, unhappily. She could see that she wouldn’t influence Severus on this one, but she was still sure that Robin could never be anything like Filch. “I’ll… bear it in mind,” she said quietly, with very little intention of doing so. Severus trusted Draco, and her mother had trusted Severus… and if the potion’s master really had been working for Voldemort, the surely he’d have turned her over to the madman by now.

“Be sure that you do,” Severus replied firmly, bottling the last of his potion. “Now, on a somewhat related note, it has been twenty-seven days since your first dose of contraceptive. You need to take more no later than tomorrow.”

He crossed to his shelves of potions and selected a bulbous green bottle. “If you can promise me that you will take it, you may keep this bottle- one tablespoon on every twenty-eighth day. I will check that you remember.”

“I already got a dose from Madam Pomfrey,” Harriet bit out. She didn’t need Severus checking up on her like that!

Severus grunted in acknowledgment. “Keep this anyway,” he said. “It will be easier for you than traipsing up to the infirmary every four weeks. I’ve long said that it should be kept in each house, or added to the damnable pumpkin juice. It would have saved more than one girl from the trauma of a post-coital contraceptive potion. It’s been a long time since we had a pregnancy at Hogwarts though.”

“I’ve never seen a pregnant girl at Hogwarts,” Harriet said.

“Of course you haven’t. The headmaster, in his infinite wisdom, refuses to admit the rampant hormones of the magical teenager, and insists upon their ability to make decisions for themselves. Hence, he will not agree to mass dosing of the school, but nor will he allow a girl with child to grace his hallowed halls of learning. They are sent home, until the situation is… adequately dealt with.”

“Dealt with?” Harriet asked, curious about Severus’ ire.

“Yes,” he said. “Either the child is born, or… disposed of. No one expects a woman going into marriage to be virginal any longer, but a woman with a child stands no hope of a good match. Be warned, Miss Potter.” He finished placing the last of the potions into a crate, presumably destined for Madam Pomfrey. Harriet slid off her stool and followed him back to the living room.

“So, if Dumbledore won’t do mass dosing, why haven’t there been more accidents?”

Severus settled into his armchair. “I ensure my Slytherin girls take their potions, and it’s traditionally been the Slytherins who get into bother. The Ravenclaws are too sensible, and I suspect that the older girls brew for the younger. Hufflepuffs… Professor Sprout is likely to brew her own, I think, or at least ensure a good supply. That only leaves the Gryffindors- the last two girls to leave in disgrace were both Gryffindor. The last was seven years ago, so apparently you’ve managed to develop some brainpower in the meantime.”

Harriet felt a little spark of resentment at his dismissal of her house as stupid, but, far more than that, was the realisation of just how involved Severus was with his students. McGonagall had always been decidedly hands-off- they barely saw her unless they sought her out. And yet, Severus kept track of his students’ homework, and even contraceptive potions. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, too tired to dwell on it.

“You look exhausted,” Severus chastened. “Have you been sleeping properly?”

“Yeah,” Harriet said. “But I’ve been trying wandless magic, and I was doing apparition lessons after dinner.”

Severus sighed. “Go to bed, Harriet. Tomorrow could be emotionally difficult for you. It’s better not to be short on sleep as well.” She’d almost forgotten that she was visiting Godric’s Hollow and the Edinburgh house tomorrow.

“I hoped Robin might visit,” she admitted quietly.

“Go to bed, Harriet,” he replied wearily. “I don’t want you skimping on sleep on the off chance my wayward son arrives. If he does, I shall tell him to come back tomorrow night.”

“Thanks,” she said, defeated by tiredness and his immovability. “Erm… do you have more floo powder? I’m running a bit low.”

“I’ll get some out for you tomorrow,” he replied. “Sleep well, Harriet.” She nodded, and flooed through to her own rooms. When she was gone, he poured himself a healthy dose of firewhiskey and wondered what it was like to live an easy, uncomplicated life.

Harriet fell into sleep easily, but she couldn’t claim that it was restful. First, she dreamed of ghosts of her parents having legions of tiny ghost babies, who haunted her, screaming and crying, every one of them a girl.

Then, she was wandering around a castle, followed in her every step by Lucius Malfoy, tapping his cane out behind her. As she passed doorways, small black-headed, black-eyed girls popped out, only to be shoved back into their rooms, door firmly shut behind them, by Lucius Malfoy.

Subsequently, thought she’d gone to sleep earlier than was her habit the night before, it was a grumpy and slightly sleepy Harriet who trudged into the great hall for breakfast the next morning. There were visitors at the high table: Tonks, her hair typically bubblegum-pink, and Moody, who could not be less bubblegum-pink if he tried. He glowered at his bacon with his good eye, whilst his magical one roved wildly around the students present. It fixed on Harriet for a few seconds, and Moody nodded slightly. Tonks glanced up and waved excitedly at her.

Ron appeared a few minutes later. “Morning,” he yawned, reaching for the platter of sausages.

“Morning,” Harried replied distractedly.

“Excited about today?” Ron asked, slathering his sausages in sauce.

“Yeah… well, kind of nervous, actually,” she admitted. She supposed that Tonks and Moody were the guard for her trip to her houses. “I’ve been told that Godric’s Hollow’s in ruins, so I guess it could be kind of boring.

Hermione had slipped into the seat beside Ron. “I want to see the library in the Edinburgh place,” Hermione said. “What was it called again?”

“Witch’s Crescent,” Harriet said, poking at her breakfast. She wasn’t particularly hungry, she decided. “Kind of odd,  seeing as it belongs to a magical family.”

“It’ll be in the Mages’ town,” Ron said, with his mouth full. “It’s a bit like Diagon Alley, but Scottish, obviously. Hidden from muggles, like. I’ve never been. Supposed to be really exclusive- not for common riffraff like us. Bet Malfoy shops there.”

“No, he gets his robes from Madam Malkin’s, like the rest of us,” Harriet  said. “I’ve seen him there.”

“School robes, yeah,” Ron acceded. “Malkins has the contract for Hogwarts robes. Bet his others come from Thistledown Street though. It’s all really old, and really expensive.”

Harriet’s nerves didn’t lessen when Lupin, Tonks and Moody left the high table and headed down the length of the room towards the trio. “Ready?” Lupin asked. “We’re going to come along, make sure there’s no nasty surprises lurking. Are all three of you coming?”

“Yeah,” Harriet said, standing, “we’re all coming. How are we getting there?”

“Got to be side-along apparition,” Lupin said. “Godric’s Hollow isn’t on the Floo. Come on, get your cloaks, and we’ll walk down to the school gates so we can apparate.”

Hermione, of course, already had her cloak with her, but neither Harriet or Ron had thought of it, so they were left dashing back to their rooms for theirs. She was in excited conversation with Lupin when the returned, and the pair continued their discussion as the little party left the castle and out into the biting wind.

“So,” Moody asked Harriet and Ron, “have you put in your applications yet? Kingsley says there’s a lot of prospective aurors lined up this year.”

“Nearly there,” Ron said. “Going to send it off Monday- just want to give it another good read tomorrow.”

Harriet bit her lip. “I’m not applying,” she said quietly.

“What was that?” Moody asked. “Could have sworn you just said you weren’t applying?”

“I did. I’m not. I’m applying to the Wizarding colleges for a place on their Magical Defence course.”

Moody stopped dead. “You’ll be wasted behind a desk, you fool,” he berated. “You think that’s what it’s about, poring over spells and doing it all in theory? No! It’s about being there, out in the field!”

“I’m not applying,” Harriet said stubbornly. “I want to teach people to defend themselves, not rely on me to defend them.”

Moody’s eye swivelled to the back of his head. “You’re an idiot if you think you can manage that, Potter. People don’t want to be taught, they want to be helped What’s the good in teaching ‘em when you-know-who’s just around the corner? Eh?”

“I think there is some good in it. So I’m going to go and learn as much about Defence as I can, and pass on the knowledge,” she reiterated “Maybe when I’ve finished, then I’ll want to be an auror.” Moody snorted and started to walk again. It was an uncomfortable walk down past Hagrid’s hut and to the edge of the grounds.

 

 

 


	26. Going home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice long chapter for you! :) Writing is slower going at the moment, since work and life keep getting in the way, but I'll try to keep at least a couple of updates a week coming for you.
> 
> Enjoy!

Side along apparition, Harriet decided, was definitely more uncomfortable than apparating yourself. She and Ron had their apparition tests next week, though, so they weren’t allowed to apparate themselves quite yet.

They appeared into the village at a small entrance to a churchyard. It had been bright at Hogwarts, but here, it was a dull grey day, with a slight drizzle just beginning to fall. Appropriate, thought Harriet.

“C’mon,” Moody said gruffly. “This way.”He led them down a narrow village street with hedgerows on either side. “Here it is,” he said, gesturing to a gate and stepping back, hands clasped and head bowed as if in prayer.

There was a sign fastened to the front gate.

 

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives._

_Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse._

_This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family._

  


Around it, people had signed their names, or left messages of support. It was almost strange to see herself referred to as a son. She was surprised at how quickly she had become used to being Harriet: Harry almost seemed like a different person now. Her friends remembered to call her Harriet now, even Neville, and everyone else just called her Potter, like they always had. She was even getting used to being a miss instead of a mister.

Slowly, and with fear, Harriet let her eyes drift up to the house. Grey. Grey was the best way to describe it. The yellow Cotswold stone was dirty, and the once bright blue door was faded and chipped, the paint peeling away. Severus hadn’t lied when he’d said that the roof had come in; it was a shell of wooden beams, the slates hanging haphazardly, a number shattered on the ground and most fallen into into the house. Most of the windows were broken, and  good chunk of wall was blown out at the top of the house.

“It’s like a skeleton,” Hermione breathed. “A dead house.”

Harriet nodded. She didn’t care how much it belonged to her, she could never live here. Quite aside from its state of disarray, there was a strange pall over the entire structure. It could have just been fifteen years of neglect, but it felt like more. Like something evil. She took a shuddering breath. “Is it safe to go in?” she asked, steeling herself.

“The floors and stairs should hold your weight,” Tonks said quietly. She was tucked close to Lupin, his arm around her shoulders. “I came yesterday to check.” Everyone seemed just as subdued as Harriet.

Lupin left a kiss on Tonk’s temple and came forward. “I’ll show you around, if you’d like,” he offered, forcing a smile. Harriet nodded. She supposed he’d been in this house a lot, being one of the marauders. He opened the gate and trod carefully up the front path, the gravel pushed asunder by weeds.

The front door swung open at a touch, loose on it’s hinges. Harriet felt the tingle of wards designed to keep wrongdoers out; she had already noticed the anti-muggle wards brushing against her at the gate. Other than the filth coating everything, the front hall was the same as in Severus’ memory, just darker from the gloom of the day and the dirt encrusting what windows were left. Everything had a strange smell: the dust and damp and an odd, sour animal odour besides. “Here’s the living room,” Lupin said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Mice had clearly been nesting in the soft furnishing; there were bits of stuffing and fabric so dirty it was almost black on the floor, mixed with the litter of slightly decaying leaves blown into the house.

“That’s odd,” Lupin said, pointing at footprints through the leaves in areas they hadn’t yet gone. “Looks like someone’s been here recently.”

“Tonks said she was here yesterday,” Ron pointed out.

“Mmm. Maybe,” Lupin whispered.

He showed them through the kitchen, where the only things clean were the magical oven and fridge: they had obviously had self-cleaning charms laid on them when they were made, and had somehow retained them though all this. Hermione brushed a cobweb out of her hair. “It would take forever to clean this place up to habitable standards,” she murmured. For some reason, all of them were treading carefully and speaking low, as if they were afraid of disturbing something, or someone.

“I don’t think it would be worth it,” Harriet replied.

The last door off the hall was shut. Lupin hesitated. “This was James’ office,” he informed them. “It… it was cleared out. I cleared it out, and gave the contents to Dumbledore. I don’t know what he did with them. He opened the door, but didn’t go in.

The shelves were bare, but they’d obviously once held books and knick-knacks. Only a pot with the skeletal remains of a few quills and a muggle ballpoint sat on the desk. “I didn’t want the accounts and things getting into the wrong hands,” Lupin told them from the door.”

Harriet turned and left the bare room. There was nothing to see there. “Professor,” she asked quietly, “do you think my dad would have killed me if he knew I was a girl?”

Lupin took in a sharp breath. “I… I don’t know, Harriet,” he admitted. “James loved you, very much so, but had he known before you were born that you were female… I’m not sure he’d have let Lily carry on with the pregnancy. He believed so much of what we were taught: that men were strong, and you needed a strong family line, even if he didn’t believe in blood purity.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” she replied. For all she’d hoped to hear that her father was a lovely man who would have adored any child who’d come along, she’d known that there must have been a reason her mother had hidden her. No one had told her that Lily Potter had been paranoid, but even one of the marauders admitted that James wasn’t above demanding a male child. She looked up the stairs.

She knew, from the many accounts that existed of that Halloween night that James had been spelled down by Voldemort here, on the stairs as her father tried to protect Lily and Harry. She forced down the pressure in her chest, and climbed the stairs. They creaked, but held. At the top, to the right, was the nursery.

She looked around the dank, soggy room. There, above the cot, was the mobile of little golden snitches. Suddenly, she didn’t want to see any more, couldn’t see any more. She shoved past a startled Ron and dived down the stairs, her feet clattering against the treads. She leaned heavily against the outside of the cottage door and Tonks hurried forward. “Are you okay?” the pink-haired witch asked solicitously. She reached out to touch Harriet, but seemed to think better of it, pulling her hand away again quickly.

Moody clomped up behind her. “The lass is fine,” he growled. “There’s just a bad feel to this place. If you’re quite done, Miss Potter, I reckon we should move on.”

Harriet nodded slowly. “It feels like death,” she said.

“Hey, mate,” Ron said from behind her. Hermione wrapped an arm around Harriet’s shoulder in comfort.

“Have you seen enough, Harriet?” Lupin asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she said. “Actually, no, wait. Aren’t my parents buried here? Can I visit the grave?”

“I don’t see why not,” Lupin said. “It’s only a few minutes back to the graveyard anyway. Come on, being away from the house might make you feel better.”

They walked in silence back down the lane. Harriet had the oddest feeling that they were being watched, but there was no one in sight. The windows of the houses across the road were dark, though, so an unobserved observer was not impossible. They veered away from the main gate of the graveyard, instead entering by the arched kissing gate next to which they’d apparated. One by one, they trooped through. Why was there always a puddle right where you stood to get through gates like these? Harriet wondered.

Godric’s Hollow Churchyard had obviously seen plenty of deaths over its lifespan. There were old graves, so time-worn that the inscriptions had faded to faint indentations in the stone. A few from the fourteenth and fifteenth century were still clearly readable- wizarding graves, Lupin explained, magically protected from wear.

It was Moody who stomped his way over to a white marble headstone and beckoned Harriet over. She stared down at the stark inscription.

 

_James Potter, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981_

_Lily Potter, born 30 January 1960, died 31 October 1981_

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

“What does it mean?” she asked. “‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’? You can’t destroy death; not without something like the Philosopher’s stone. Even then, it's just... delayed”

“It’s from the Bible,” Hermione offered. “Something about death not being so bad anymore if you believe in an afterlife.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Harriet insisted. “They’re dead. Dead is dead.”

Lupin put his hand gently on Harriet’s shoulder. “Lily and James knew that they were at risk when they joined the fight against you-know-who,” he assured her gently. “They felt that the cause was worthy enough to offer up their lives, if needs be. They defeated death, because they defied death.”

Harriet wasn’t sure she really understood. “But what about my life,” she whispered, almost afraid to say the words. “Why did they get the choice to give away my life?”

Lupin sighed deeply, wearily. “I don’t know, Harriet. I’m sorry, but these are difficult questions, and I don’t have the answers.”

She turned back to to the gravestone. She felt like she should feel something, should be sad or want to cry, or something. Instead, she just felt… disconnected. This slab of cold stone had nothing to do with her life. Then again, it felt like her parents, the people who’d created her life, had nothing to do with her life anymore. “I should have thought to bring some flowers,” she said.

Hermione stepped up beside her and twirled her wand over a handful of leaves she had picked up, transfiguring up a wreath of big white flowers with bright orange centres. “Lilies,” she advised with a small, sad smile, handing them to Harriet to place on the headstone.

“Thanks,” Harriet muttered, feeling silly that she hadn't thought of transfiguring some flowers. “I'm… I'm done now, thanks. We can go to the other house.”

“Wait,” Tonks said quietly. “Whilst we’re here… shouldn’t we see the statue?”

“Statue?” Harriet asked dully.

“Er, yeah… there’s a statue of your parents in the village square. Well, and you as a baby…”

She couldn’t help but think that a year ago, the idea of a statue of her parents would have delighted her, but now… it seemed silly. She realised that the wizarding world held the Potter family up as the heroes of their time, the vanquishers of Voldemort, but it all seemed so ridiculous. Putting up a statue of people because a curse rebounded when it hit their baby? But she had seen the sign at the cottage: a lot of people obviously gained great comfort from knowing that the Potters had died to destroy Voldemort, even though he had returned. “Lead the way,” she said.

At first, it looked like Tonks was pointing out a war memorial, just as there was in the majority of towns and villages the country over, the stone base bearing the names of all the lives lost during the World Wars. A couple of bedraggled looking poppy wreaths leaned against the plinth. As Tonks stood before it, though, the memorial faded, replaced by the statue she’d mentioned: James and Lily Potter, a baby in Lily’s arms. She looked up at it, curiously. The artist had carved her parents to look older than they were when they’d died, for what purpose she didn’t know.

Moody interrupted her thoughts. “We need t’get out of here,” he drawled, his magical eye swinging wildly.

“Let her have a moment, Mad-eye,” Lupin rebuked gently. “They’re her family.”

“There’s something not right here. We need to go.”

“It’s fine,” Harriet cut in. “I’m ready, we can go.”

“Okay. Let’s go back to the church to apparate, then,” Lupin suggested.

Moody growled. “No time,” he insisted gruffly. He grasped Harriet by the shoulder, and raised his wand. She felt the slippery coolness of a disillusionment charm whisper over her body: it would be enough to prevent any muggles seeing them disapparate, although she wasn’t sure disappearing people were any less unusual. Moody hadn’t let go; instead he apparated, taking her with him into the tight blackness.

They whirled into a quiet corner of a cobbled street. Harriet gasped, and Moody yanked her out of the way to make room for the others, Lupin bringing Ron and Tonks holding tight to Hermione. “Where are we now?” she asked.

“Kelpie Close,” Moody said. “Just around the corner from Witch’s Crescent.”

“Perhaps some lunch before we go to the other house?” Lupin suggested quietly. “It’s been a bit of a fraught morning.”

Even Moody couldn’t find fault with this, especially when Tonks suggested a muggle pub: he was less suspicious of foul dealing around muggles. Harriet was surprised to realise it was already ten to twelve. She hadn’t realised that they’d spent so long at Godric’s Hollow. The pub Tonks recommended wasn’t far; just outside Mage’s town. Very quickly, they were sitting at a table tucked into the corner by the big fireplace, glasses of lemonade in front of the three teenagers and Lupin, and pints of beer for Moody and Tonks (although Moody had insisted on watching the bartender with an eagle eye as he pulled the pint). It was still quiet, having just struck twelve, so the doorstop slabs of sandwiches and bowls of steaming chips soon arrived. Tonks sniffed the air appreciatively as she doused her chips in vinegar. “Can’t get better than hot, fresh chips,” she insisted. After a few mouthfuls, Harriet was inclined to agree. She watched Tonks and Lupin speculatively. Tonks ate the tomatoes Lupin had pulled out of his sandwich straight off his plate, and she just smiled when he pinched one of her chips. They’d become close over the last couple of years, and she wondered if they’d finally take their relationship further. It was clear to anyone who cared to look that they loved each other. She’d like to see Lupin settled and happy.

Eventually, Moody drained the last of his pint, which he’d been nursing long past the time the rest of them had finished. Tonks had teased him lightly, claiming that the older auror couldn’t hold his alcohol. He’d even allowed a little grin- he seemed to view her in an almost fatherly sense, and let her get away with it.

She found herself cheered up by the food and the gentle teasing between the adults, though Ron and Hermione were still quiet. It took a lot to shock Ron into silence, but he seemed to have been frightened by her mad dash out of the Potter cottage. At any rate, both of her friends were there, but not pushy. It was sunny in Edinburgh; crisp and cold and bracing: just the kind of weather that made her want to fly as far and as fast as she could, just for the joy it brought. She smiled as she breathed in the cold air.

“It’s nicer here than in muggle Edinburgh,” Tonks informed her. “Not many cars, less nasty smoky stuff.” Hermione looked longingly into the window of a bookshop as they passed it, packed in next to a slightly faded apothecary and a magical jeweller, his wares sparkling in the sunlight though smudge-free windows. A few hanging baskets of purple pansies and dittany, coming to the end of its flower.

They came to a halt before a few steps leading up to a four-storey, double-fronted townhouse of blocky, uncompromising stone. The scarlet door was bright and cheerful, but the curtains were drawn over the bay windows on either side. Lupin dug in his pocket and handed Harriet a key. “This was in Dumbledore's care,” he explained. “It was in the cottage when… when they died. The others should be in the vault with the deeds.” The key turned smoothly in the lock, and the door opened without a squeak.

Everything in the hallway gleamed, and there was a strong smell of freshly applied furniture polish. “That’s odd,” Lupin murmured, “I’d expect this place to be thick with dust, at least.”

Moody maneuvered Harriet out of the way. His head tipped back, his eye searching into each corner of the house. “No one here,” he said a few minutes later. “Be careful though- who knows if there’s someone who might come back.” His wand was gripped in his hand- Harriet realised that she had hers tightly clutched as well. All of them did. If a house that had been shut up for almost two decades was so clean and neat… did that mean that someone was here, taking care of it? “Is there a house elf?” Harriet whispered.

“Shouldn’t be,” Lupin said. “The Potter’s house elves died out- they had a generation of all males, so no babies. Lily liked to take care of the house at Godric’s Hollow herself anyway. They didn’t really use this one, or the place in London. Too grand for Lily.”

Grand was certainly a good way to describe this house. Some of the furnishings in the drawing room looked a little word, but everything was sparkling clean. The curtains had been laundered, the windows washed to crystal clarity. The kitchen was completely empty, but the surfaces were so clean that they shone. “It really looks like there’s a legion of house elves somewhere,” Ron commented. “Even the tops of the cupboards are clean… who cleans the tops of the cupboards?”

“Sensible people, Ronald,” Hermione said, although she seemed more distracted than sharp, peering into cupboards. “The garden’s overgrown, though,” she noted, gazing out of the window.

Ron gave a high pitched shriek as a loud pop sounded next to him. Moody and Tonks whirled around, wands pointed straight at the perpetrator: Dobby. Moody flicked his wand tip aside at the last moment, the total body bind hitting the wall instead of the house elf. Whether the wall was then bound was questionable; walls not moving much as a matter of course.

“Dobby!” Harriet cried out in greeting. “What are you doing here?”

“Dobby came to see if Mistress Harriet likes the house,” the elf said, twisting his sock-kilt between his long knobbly fingers. “Dobby has been coming to clean it ever since he came to retrieve the books and found it in such a state. Winky has helped too.”

Moody harrumphed and stowed his wand back in its holder. “Well, that explains that, then” he growled. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to sit in the living room and wait for you. I can’t be arsed with all this fannying about.” He stomped out, and Harriet couldn’t hold in the giggle anymore.

“Fannying about!” she gasped. For some reason, grumpy Moody had really tickled her, and when coupled with the relief of knowing that the mystery cleaner was Dobby, and not some squatting Death eater, she couldn’t help it. Soon, everyone in the room was laughing, with the exception of a slightly befuddled house elf.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harriet eventually said, wiping away the tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. “I appreciate it, I really do.”

Dobby bobbed in excitement. “May Dobby fetch Mistress Harriet anything?” he asked.

She smiled. “No, Dobby, that’s fine. Thank you, though.”

Dobby grinned widely, and vanished again with a pop. “Y’know, I reckon you’ve got yourself a new Potter house elf,” Ron commented.

“Dobby’s a free elf, he doesn’t belong to anyone,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yeah, but he’d follow Harriet to the ends of the earth,” Ron responded. “That sounds like the sign of a good house elf to me. Better than Kreacher anyway.” No one could argue at that.

Lupin and Tonks went to join Moody in the living room, leaving the three teenagers to wander the house, now that they were sure it was safe. The downstairs boasted a big pantry, a dining room, a snug and a study in addition to the living room and kitchen. The first floor was split evenly between a massive master suite and a library, where they very nearly lost Hermione. She wandered around the room, a thick, aged book clutched to her chest. She was reluctant to put it down, wistfully looking back at it when Ron’s sighs got loud enough,

“Keep the book, Hermione,” Harriet instructed,.

“Oh, I couldn’t!” she exclaimed. “It’s a copy of Merlin’s Wizarding Laws- they’re quite valuable.”

“Take the damned book. Consider it your Christmas present, if you like,” Harriet insisted.

Hermione shot a longing glance at the book again. “If you’re sure…” she said.

“You’ll get more use out of it than I will,” Harriet pointed out. “Having it or not having it makes no difference to me. Bring the book, and let’s look around a bit more- I bet Moody will come to chase us if we take too long!”

Hermione giggled and retrieved the slightly musty tome, holding it like a baby as they wandered through the opulent master suite, with a little sitting room, two dressing rooms and a palatial bathroom in addition to the bedroom complete with intricately carved four poster bed. Harriet couldn’t shake the feeling that she was visiting some kind of stately home; like the ones Aunt Petunia had always wanted to visit. She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that this was hers.

Additional bedrooms and bathrooms were of little interest to the trio; there were no particularly interesting discoveries to be made. The adults were only too keen to return their charges to Hogwarts again- Harriet suspected that Moody did not have the patience to be dealing with her outbursts, and was still stinging from her refusal to apply to the auror training scheme. She was tired too, and all too pleased to return to her familiar, comfortable room- not the splendour of Witch’s Crescent, but a world away from the downtrodden, dismal cottage at Godric’s Hollow.

 

 


	27. Chekhov's paper plane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, a nice smutty chapter!

Harriet sank down into her favourite chair. It’d been a very long day, she decided. She couldn’t quite get her head around her views on her parents anymore. For so long, it had felt like everything would become clear if she knew about her parents. When she was Harry, she’d always assumed that had her parents lived, she’d have had a perfect magical upbringing, filled with love. Now though… if her parents had been alive, what would have happened when she turned back into a girl? How would James Potter have taken that?

She was musing on the question when a paper aeroplane came flying out of the fireplace as it momentarily flickered green. With a raised eyebrow, she picked the papery missile up from where it had landed on the hearth rug. She could see the scrawl over the wings of aeroplane. She unfolded it, smiling when she recognised Robin’s writing. He just wanted to let her know that he was there for the evening, it said, should she wish to see him. She had half an hour before dinner; she could pop through the floo to say hello before she went to the great hall.

Robin was still in the living room when she whirled through the fireplace. “Hey,” he said with a soft smile, opening his arms in invitation. She gladly went to him, sighing in contentment as he closed his arms around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. “I was hoping you might be home,” he murmured.

“You smell like bacon.” She sniffed again. “And coffee.”

“Mmm. Sorry. Just finished work.”

“What’s with the aeroplane?” she wanted to know.

He chuckled. “Well, I can’t charm notes to get away from the fire… so I chuck them through with force. Aeroplanes seem to work best. Plus, it’s funny.” He kissed the top of her head. “Did you go on your visits?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I missed you this week.”

“Missed you too,” he replied. “Sorry I couldn’t get here in the evenings- had a lot on this week. But I can stay the night here, if you want.”

She snorted. “Not like your dad’ll let us spend the night together anyway,” she said.

He let her step back from the embrace. “I reckon I can probably talk him into it… if you want to, that is?”

“I… I suppose so,” she said, suddenly nervous. But there was nothing to be nervous about, was there? They’d already slept together, in the most euphemistic of senses, and it had felt good. She certainly wouldn’t mind doing it again. “Where’s your dad at the moment?”

“Supervising some poor sod’s detention.” Robin leaned down to brush a kiss against her lips, so she stretched onto her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, prolonging and deepening the kiss. He nipped lightly at her lower lip, his hands slipping down her back to cup her denim-clad bum. She tensed slightly at the contact, her heart racing. “You okay?” Robin whispered, pulling back a little

She smiled up at him, her arms still around his neck. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just… missed you.”

“And in what way might that be?” he asked with a cheeky grin, slowly backing towards his bedroom with his arms locked around her, making them do an odd little shuffle-dance.

She laughed at him, matching his tiny steps back. “Oh, lots of ways,” she assured him. She gasped as he tucked a hand further between her legs, feeling the contact even through the thick seam of her jeans.

He smiled and flopped back onto his bed, taking her with him. “And is this one of them?” he asked, slipping a cool hand up under her t-shirt and over her quivering tummy to brush just below the bottom band of her bra. If he just pushed a little, he’d be touching the tender underside of her breast. Her nipples were over-sensitive anyway, a symptom that she understood to be part of having a period; the thought of him touching them was enough to have her suppressing a groan.

“Robin…” she murmured, “I have to go to dinner soon.”

He sighed and left her sit up and clamber off him. They each turned to their sides to look at each other. “Shame,” he said. “You sure they’ll notice if you’re not there?” he asked. She nodded. She was pretty sure that Ron and Hermione, at least, would get worried if she didn’t show up. “Damn. Maybe later.”

If she was a cat, she was sure she’d have purred as he ran a hand down the length of her torso, dipping down into her waist and onto the mound of her hip. “Erm, I’m not sure,” she said breathily. Was it her imagination, or did he look a little hurt. “It’s not that I don’t want to!” she assured him quickly. “Just that, well… I’m, erm, kind of… on my period.”

The side of his mouth quirked into a grin. “Is that it?” he asked. “I’m sure we can find ways to deal with that issue.” She wrinkled her nose a little. “It’s not a big deal, kitten,” he said softly. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but it doesn’t bother me.”

“Really?” she said with surprise. “It’s just that, well… people seem to find it a bit horrid. I find it a bit horrid.”

He smiled gently. “Not particularly. It’s a fact of life. Basic biology. I probably wouldn’t go down on you, I admit, but anything else… well. Put a towel down and wash afterwards. No big deal.”

They could easily hear Severus shutting the door and moving around the living room. Robin sighed and grinned a very small grin. “Let’s keep this conversation for later,” he suggested wryly, and kissed her again, tenderly. He stood and offered her a hand, pulling her upright.

Severus was leaning over his desk, head down, reading something. His dark hair had swung forward to partly hide his face, hanging in lank ropes. Harriet was pleased that Robin kept his soft and clean, even if it was currently pulled back into a ponytail. Severus glanced up. “Good evening, Harriet,” he said. “How did your visit to Godric’s Hollow go?”

“Erm, okay, thanks,” Harriet said. “A bit… weird.”

“Oh? In what manner?” Severus asked, glancing at the clock on the mantle. It was still ten minutes until dinner was served.

Harriet shrugged. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting. It was just abandoned, and dirty, and it was weird seeing the sign, and the statue and stuff.”

Severus sighed. “Yes, I suppose it would be strange.” He eyeballed his son. “Are you staying the weekend, Robin?”

“Until tomorrow afternoon- I’m going up to the Lakes with Edward for Monday. Thought I’d spend tonight with Harriet, though.”

“No,” Severus said flatly. “We’ve discussed this, Robin. She’s too young.”

“Hey,” Harriet interjected, feeling as if they were talking about her like she wasn’t even there. “I’m seventeen. I’m an adult.”

“If your situation and circumstances were normal, you’d be sleeping in a dormitory with four other girls,” Severus pointed out. “Think on that, and then tell me that you think it is appropriate for you and Robin to spend the night together.”

Harriet had to resist the urge to stamp her feet. “But my ‘circumstances and situation’ aren’t normal,” she snapped.

“Dad, I know you’re worried I’m going to do the same as you,” Robin said quietly. “I know having a kid at nineteen must have been crap for you, and I know it would be crap for me. We’re more sensible than that. And this isn’t going away, okay? It’s not just a fling, or a one night stand.”

Severus sighed. “Harriet, go to dinner. Robin, we’re going to discuss this.”

Harriet tipped her head back to look up to Robin, standing behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. “Go, kitten,” he said softly. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed reluctantly. She supposed this was just one more thing that she could never understand: the parent and child relationship. She was always the outsider.

She happened into the entrance hall at the same time as Ron, with a giggling Imogen Langley clinging to his arm. She hadn’t realised that Ron and Imogen were together: the redhead hadn’t mentioned it. Imogen seemed pretty close for ‘just friends’, though. When Ron saw Harriet, he leaned down to whisper something in Imogen’s ear. She pouted a little, but unwound her hand from his and went into the great hall ahead of them.

“So,” Harriet said conversationally, “you and Imogen, huh? How long’s that been going on for?”

“Couple of weeks,” Ron said, swinging his long legs over the bench. “She’s nice, I guess. Quiet.”

“Better than Lav-Lav?” Harriet asked with a grin.

“Merlin, yes!” Ron exclaimed, leaving both of the giggling until Hermione found them- and her confusion only led to mild hysterics. They knew better than to mention Ron’s relationship with Lavender in front of Hermione though; it always got her angry. So, she continued in blissful, if slightly befuddled ignorance, and Harriet found herself quite cheered up by the laughter.

Severus swept up to the head table ten minutes after the meal had begun. Harriet tried to figure out how his discussion with Robin had gone. He was glowering, but then, he was usually glowering around students, so that didn’t mean much. She really hoped that he’d ended up agreeing with Robin, but then, Severus was stubborn beyond all others. He may well have just dug his heels in because he could. Hopefully, Robin would still be there when she returned after the meal.

Hermione poked Harriet in the side. “Harriet! Are you even listening?”

“Huh?” Harriet said, realising that she’d been too deep in thought to even notice that the dessert dishes had vanished. “Erm, just drifted for a moment.”

Hermione sighed. “Ron asked if you were coming to the common room?”

“Erm, probably not,” she said. “I might have a visitor.”

Ron sighed. “Honestly, does all your life revolve around him?” he asked.

“Well, it’s not like I get to see him every day in lessons, or whatever,” Harriet pointed out. “Look, I’ll come to the common room tomorrow afternoon, okay? Oh, and Hermione… could you maybe check my charms essay? I’m not sure about a bit of it….”

Hermione huffed in a long-suffering way. “Oh, if I must,” she said, but Harriet didn’t miss the little smile as she turned away. She’d known for ages that Hermione quite enjoyed checking over their work- it made her feel clever. She just hated it when Ron tried to copy, or demanded the answers.

“Hey, Neville,” Ron called across the table. “Up for a game of chess?”

“Maybe gobstones?” Neville suggested- he usually lost at gobstones, but he always lost at chess. Harriet grinned and slipped out of the great hall.

She didn’t notice Severus follow her. “Potter,” he hissed from behind her. “I feel we need to discuss your latest… offering in my lessons. My office, now.”

Harriet’s heart sank. Even though she was used to Severus now, and knew his Snape persona was just that- a front- she still couldn’t help but be a little afraid of ‘scary professor Snape’. Six years of conditioning was too hard to undo. Even Peeves got out of Snape’s way.

She found herself hurried along the dungeon corridors, the swish of Severus’ robes against the stone behind her. The door to his classroom burst open before they even reached it. Harriet trembled. He seemed angry. “Storeroom,” he barked, shoving the door shut behind him, warding it. She scuttled to obey.

He followed her, leaning against a shelf for support. She realised that his face was ashy. “Harriet,” he said, his voice fast, snapping. “I’m being summoned. Stay with Robin- he worries.”

He pushed through into his rooms, summoning his mask and cloak as soon as he entered. Robin leapt up from his place on the sofa as a Death Eater mask went zooming past his head. “Will it be bad?” the younger man asked.

Severus shook his head. “I hope not,” he said. “I’ve fed him enough ‘information’ of late that he should be content.” His lip curled as he spoke. He really did despise Voldemort, that much was obvious in his face. “I should imagine that I shall emerge relatively unscathed. Do not fret unless I do not return by this time tomorrow.” He shrugged his heavy outdoor cloak around his shoulders and tucked his mask away before pulling Robin into a brief hug. “Don’t worry,” he told his son seriously, although he didn’t really expect the words to have much effect. He cursed the fact that the summoning had come whilst Robin was here; it was easier when the boy didn’t even know anything was wrong.

The door shut behind Severus and Harriet felt the wards flicker and return, signalling that he had gone, hurrying off the school grounds so he could apparate away to Voldemort. Robin sank back down onto the sofa, and Harriet perched nervously next to him. “So, I guess he decided that it was okay for us to be together,” she pointed out.

“Yeah,” Robin replied. “He decided that before he went to dinner.”

“Really?” she asked. “I’m surprised. He seemed pretty determined. I was trying to figure out a way of hiding you in my room anyway.”

“I reminded him of a few things,” he said distractedly. “Kitten… would you think the worse of me if I said I wanted some distraction?”

She bit her lip, not wanting to assume what he meant by ‘distraction’. “I can understand why you’d prefer to be… distracted,” she admitted. “What would you like?”

He stood and offered her his hand. “I’d like to go through to the bedroom, where we can be more comfortable, and enjoy you.”

“Okay,” she agreed, letting him tow her into his bedroom. “God,” he breathed as he tugged her t-shirt over her head, “I knew you were beautiful from the first moment I saw you in those stupid baggy clothes.” He tossed the fabric to the side and brought his lips down to hers in a crushing kiss, pulling her close to his body. She was surprised- he’d always been so gentle before- but he wasn’t hurting her. In fact, the pressure was good. She twined her arms around him, encouraging him closer. She liked it when Robin kissed her: it made her feel small, cared for. She’d never felt that way before. She was always having to look after other people. His fingers slipped under the clasp of her bra, flicking it open and letting it fall. It was only when he slipped them under the waistband of her jeans that she pulled away. “Bleeding, remember?” she asked breathily, her lips feeling swollen.

“D’you want to nip to the loo and clean up?” he offered. “Bring a towel back with you.”

“You really don’t mind?” she asked.

His eyes seemed darker than ever. “Kitten, right now, I just want to be inside you.” She nodded and did as he suggested.

Being away from him somehow made the nerves well up again, and she was hesitant when she opened the door again, clutching a spare towel in front of her. He smiled when he saw her, which made her feel a lot better. He’d removed his own t-shirt too, but kept his jeans on, although he quickly divested her of her towel. “Beautiful girl,” he murmured, running his thumb over one of her peaked nipples. She squeaked when he pinched lightly. “Is that okay?” he asked roughly. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s just tender,” she assured him quietly.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, leaning down to run his warm tongue over the sore flesh. She tangled her fingers in his long hair, pressing him closer to her. “Good girl,” he muttered as he moved to lave the other side.

She skated her fingers down his back, scratching lightly with her nails. He seemed to enjoy it, so she did it again. Slowly, without breaking contact, Robin guided her towards the bed. He flopped down, taking her with him, and she laughed at the sudden change in position. He smiled down at her, but closed his eyes and groaned when she stroked down his trousers to the hardened bulge there. “I want to touch you,” she told him boldly, her fingers fiddling with the zip at his crotch. It was odd doing this backwards, she thought, unfastening someone else’s clothes, but she still made quick work of the zip and button, pulling his hard cock gently free of the confines of his underwear. He hissed as she ran her fingers down the silky length and into the crinkling black hair at the base. She liked that noise, she decided. He reached down to slide his jeans and underwear over his hips and down his legs, giving her more access. She cupped her hand around his balls, trying to remember what everything felt like when she’d had this equipment- it was getting harder and harder to really remember what if had been like to be a boy.

He seemed content to let her explore his nether regions, teasing her fingers along the length and over the reddened head. Should she… she wondered, unsure. Before she could lose her nerve, she dipped her head and just teased her tongue over the slit at the very tip. His hands fisted, balling up the blankets under them, and he groaned deep in his throat. “It’s been a while, kitten,” he explained hoarsely. “Feels really good.”

“How long?” she asked, the words popping out of her mouth before she could catch them.

He raised his head to look at her. “You know when the last time was,” he commented roughly, “last weekend, with you.”

She was glad- she hadn’t wanted to admit the fear that he was sleeping with someone else as well. With everything that people said about magical people having such high sex drives, and them not seeing each other that often… “And before that?” she asked.

“August,” he said, his voice almost cutting off as she took the entire head into her mouth. “The… the day after I saw you in the castle.” His hips rose up a little. “Harriet… as lovely as your mouth is, I’d rather come inside your pussy…”

She let go of his straining cock, and smiled at him in a way she hoped was seductive. “Go on then,” she challenged, and she really quite enjoyed it when he growled and rolled her over, bracing himself on top of her before sliding inside in a long, slow thrust.

Afterwards, he held her close to him, her hips tucked against his, and she enjoyed the quiet comfort, trying to ignore the throbbing between her legs. She hoped it would stop hurting soon, because she liked sleeping with Robin- just not the pain afterwards.

 


	28. Trouble in Paradise

Harriet grumbled as she was shaken awake. “What?” she snapped, trying to bury her face into her pillow.

“You need to go to your own bed, Harriet,” Severus explained quietly. She grumbled, not yet awake, but Robin was resurfacing next to her.

“Dad?” he murmured, sitting up. The motion pulled the blankets up too, and Harriet curled down, trying to stay in the warmth. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I escaped notice tonight. Get her dressed, would you?”

By the time Robin had fetched her clothes from the bathroom, Harriet was awake enough to dress herself, although she almost fell over trying to put her jeans on. A glance at the clock told her it was just before midnight, even though it felt like about three in the morning. Robin had just dressed in pyjama bottoms and wrapped a dressing gown around his pale torso. Together, they padded through to the living room.

Severus leaned against the mantle, the flickering firelight throwing his sharp features in shadowy relief. In one hand, he swirled firewhiskey in a tumbler. He glanced up. “You were spotted today,” he informed Harriet gravely.

She gasped, waking up very quickly. “By Voldemort?”

Even Severus flinched at the name. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “A so-called journalist with a desire to join the Dark Lord’s cause. I am reasonably certain that you will be front page news in the morning.”

“Ugh, great,” Harriet grumbled. She had been half-waiting every day since her birthday for the Prophet to catch wind of her change: she’d been amazed when nothing had come out when school had started and it was common knowledge. For days, she’d scoured the Prophet when it arrived, but found no mention of herself. Admittedly, the paper seemed to find plenty to write about with Muggle murders attributed to Voldemort, but she was surprised, nevertheless. She’d expected such a big change to be leapt upon by the ilk of Rita Skeeter, although that particular breed of beetle was too scared of Hermione’s wrath to report on anything involving the trio these days. If it was common knowledge amongst the students, and news had reached Voldemort so quickly, it was surprising to say the least that the press hadn’t caught wind.

Severus shrugged in a languorous manner. “You must have expected it at some point. Even Dumbledore can’t keep the news from the press forever.”

Harriet nodded. She should have known that Dumbledore would have something to do with keeping it quiet. As aloof as he’d been, she couldn't deny that he did still shelter her. “I suppose he does still look after me,” she said.

“He still cares for you, Harriet. He cares for all his students. He is just under a great deal of stress at the moment. It would be appreciated if you would find it in yourself to overlook his failings in light of his duties.” Severus sighed deeply. “Go to bed, Harriet. I know you’ve got quidditch in the morning- my Slytherins were most put out that you wouldn’t give them the pitch for a last minute practice before their match.”

She shrugged, but gave a grin too. “Hey, I don’t want to give the Slytherins any advantage- they’re the next best at quidditch, after Gryffindor. Gotta make my life easier.”

“Go to bed, impertinent child!” Severus mock-growled, the curve of his thin lips giving away his amusement.

Both Harriet and Robin had to laugh. Severus caught Robin’s arm as they passed him to get to the fireplace. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice low and harsh.

Robin nodded. “I know what’s real and what’s not,” he replied seriously, and held out the pot of floo for Harriet to take a pinch.

“What was that about?” she wanted to know as soon as he’d followed her through the emerald flames.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “Just… dad being dad. You ready to go back to bed?”

“Let me go to the loo first,” she said, and ducked into the bathroom. she was pretty sure there was a little bit of blood on the towel left in Robin’s bed: she hoped the house elves wouldn’t mind cleaning it up. She’d rather leave as little work for them as possible, though, plus she disliked the squishy feeling of the blood between her legs.

Robin had slid into her bed whilst she was busy, warming the sheets. He pulled her close. “Sleep, now,” he said quietly.

She tried, but trying to sleep was, as is so often the case, rather fruitless. She lay, awake and quiet and still, staring into the darkness, lit only by the embers of the fire, for quite some time, wondering what the Prophet would have to say about her. Eventually, though, the warmth and Robin’s soft sleep breathing lulled her to sleep.

He was still sleeping when she crawled out of bed for quidditch. The sky was just beginning to brighten, dark mornings being the hallmark of winter in Scotland. She’d need an extra cushioning charm on her broom this morning, she thought. For some reason, the healing charm she tried didn’t seem to have any effect. She supposed she’d just have to wait. Magic had its limitations.

Robin was awake by the time she’d started dressing. “D’you want to come?” she asked.

His eyes were bright in the semi-light of the room, catching the first glints of sunlight. “Can’t go wandering about the castle,” he reminded her in a sleep-mussed voice.

“I have a cloak… it makes you invisible. You could wear that.” she suggested. “No one would know.”

“Not worth it,” he told her. “Getting caught isn’t something I want- by my dad or anyone else.”

“Fine,” she said sulkily. “I just thought if you really did want to watch, you wouldn’t mind a little bit of fun. But I suppose you’re not all that interested in what I can do outside the bedroom.”

He shook his head at her. “Harriet, don’t do this. Don’t pull this ‘if you really loved me’ crap. I want to see you play, I want to know about your interests. But this is bigger than just us; there’s too much at risk.”

“There’ll always be too much at risk,” she snapped, buttoning her robes and pulling down her broom from the top of her wardrobe. “Suit yourself.”

“Harriet!” Robin called, but she was already at the door, and she didn’t turn back, just slamming it behind her.His head flopped back onto the pillows in defeat.

Harriet, meanwhile took out her frustration on the pitch. She was the first there, after pulling out the box of balls from the quidditch shed, she flew furious laps and figure eights, her head buzzing. She ached and stung from the night before, but Robin couldn’t even have the decency to show an interest in her sport? She’d been out all over the castle at all hours under the cloak; it was foolproof. Well, unless you had Moody’s eye- she still couldn’t quite figure out how he could see everything with that eye. Did he see everyone without their clothes on, she wondered with a shiver. She didn’t really want to think about Moody seeing her naked.

She spotted the rest of her team straggling down from the castle and swooped down to meet them. They all seemed unusually subdued: it must have been the cold and the dark. She knew she was unpopular for choosing the early morning slot, but it meant they had the rest of the day to spend as they pleased, and they were less likely to be observed by the other houses or distracted by their friends, which Harriet could only see as a good thing. Warm up laps were first, followed by a punishing drill of passing and scoring drills for the chasers and Ron, whilst she took her beaters off chasing the bludgers she’d enchanted to follow her around. She was fast enough to keep out of their way, but only just, and she relished the whistle as they roared up behind her. Eventually, she had to end the charm to correct the exercise she’d set the chasers, but she did feel much better. She’d been clipped on the leg by a bludger when she’d turned too fast for the beaters, but oddly, the bruising ache made her feel better. It certainly distracted her from the sting between her legs where she pushed into the broom. “Again!” she called as Ginny fumbled the quaffle on a quick pass, only just avoiding dropping it.

Ginny tucked the big red ball under her arm and glared at Harriet. “What’s your problem, Potter?” she shouted back.

“It wasn’t perfect. Again.”

“You’re worse than fucking Snape!” Ginny groused, but launched the Quaffle anyway. Harriet had to stifle a giggle. She should have been offended to be compared to Snape,but instead, all she could think was to wonder what Ginny would know about actually fucking Snape. She didn’t think the redhead would appreciate the joke, though.

When she sent her team back up to the castle and lugged the balls back into the shed, she found Malfoy leaning up against the wooden shack. “You’re a good coach,” the blonde boy said.

Harriet shrugged. She figured that Malfoy was only complimenting her to try to get her to agree to go out with him. “I’ve got a good team. Doubt I’m any better than any other captain.”

Draco made an odd little hum in his throat, a noise that seemed to agree, but at the same time conveyed that he didn’t believe what she said. “I just came out to check the conditions, but figured I’d see what you lot were up to for the game after Christmas. Someone told me that there might be scouts there, you know.”

“Doesn’t really matter to me,” Harriet said, carefully stowing the balls. The bludgers had finally fallen silent after she’d wrestled them into their places. “I’m not going to go professional.”

“You could, you know,” Malfoy pointed out. “Of all people, you could.”

“It’s not what I want from my life,” she said, shivering slightly now she wasn’t moving any more. With a smile, Malfoy magiced up two heavy mugs of steaming hot chocolate and handed one over to her. She took a sip, the edge of her bottom perched against a broom rack. “Thanks,” she said. Well, at least he was being more considerate than Robin, who was probably tucked warmly up in her bed, not out here freezing his bollocks off like Draco. Then again, maybe the ice prince didn’t feel the cold. “So, how do you fancy your chances this afternoon?” she asked Draco.

He wedged himself against the door frame. “Shouldn’t be too tough a match,” he mused. “The Hufflepuff’s goalkeeper’s quite easily distracted.”

“I’ve heard whispers that they’ve got good chasers this year though,” Harriet pointed out. They were a set of identical twins, and supposed to be whippet-fast.

Draco only raised one shoulder languorously. A Malfoy never accepted that others were superior. “We shall see what the score is this afternoon,” he declared.

Harriet decided it was probably best not to try to teach Draco humility: it was hardly going to work now when it never had before. She just took a gulp of her cooling drink instead. “How’d you summon up the chocolate?” she asked.

“The house elves always have a supply in the kitchens when it’s cold- didn’t you know that?”

“No,” Harriet said with a sigh. “Sometimes I think there’s still an awful lot about the magical world that I don’t know.”

“Well, should you need a guide, I would be only too happy to oblige,” Draco informed her. “After all, you could do far worse as a guide to high society in the wizarding world- my family is almost as old as yours.”

“Erm, thanks,” Harriet said hesitantly. She drained the mug of hot chocolate, and Draco banished both cups back to the kitchen.

“Shall we walk up together?” he asked solicitously, offering his arm. She hesitated a moment- should she really be walking arm in arm with Draco? What about Robin? But then she remembered that Robin hadn’t even wanted to come with her, and was probably soundly asleep at right this moment. She tucked her hand into the crook of Draco’s arm.

They had barely entered the castle when Severus swept up from the dungeons. His jewel-dark eyes snapped over the pair. “Miss Potter, the headmaster would like to see you in his office,” he declared smoothly. “It would seem that you cannot manage without making a spectacle of yourself somewhere.”

Harriet gulped, suddenly feeling sick. Of all the people to see her with Draco, it had to be her boyfriend’s father. “Yes, professor,” she replied quietly, slipping her arm from Draco’s. “Erm, good luck for the match, Draco,” she said, and scurried away without looking at either Slytherin.

The gargoyle slid aside before she could even start trying passwords. That was new, she thought with a frown. The stairs were already moving, but she hurried up them anyway.

Dumbledore pushed a cup of tea across the desk as she peered around his open office door. “Good morning, Harriet,” he intoned quietly. “I noticed that you had missed breakfast this morning. I thought you might want something to eat.”

“Sir?” Harriet said, puzzled. Dumbledore gestured to the plate of Danish pastries on the desk next to her cup of tea. She perched in the offered chair. It wasn’t unheard of to miss meals, especially not for the seventh years, who had usually ended up on good enough terms with the house elves to ask for snacks. She’d certainly never been summoned to Dumbledore’s office for missing breakfast before. That was when she remembered: Severus had said that there was likely to be something in the paper about her today. “I don’t quite understand,” she told the headmaster, sensible enough to realise that Dumbledore would be suspicious of her having spoken to Severus last night. “Was there something you wanted to see me about?”

Dumbledore’s eyes had lost their twinkle this year. He wearily slid a copy of the prophet across the table to her. ‘THE GIRL WHO LIVED?’  the headline proclaimed in blocky capitals. And there it was, a grainy photo, clearly taken from some distance away of her looking up at the statue of her parents. ‘It would seem that Harry Potter has been keeping some rather big secrets this year,’ the article began, ‘as the seventh year Hogwarts student has seemingly transformed into a girl. The cause of this change is as yet unknown, but…”

Harriet pushed the paper away from her. “I know better than to read whatever drivel

the Prophet puts out about me,” she said. “It always just makes me angry. Is there anything I should be concerned about?”

“Not as such,” Dumbledore replied, his fingers steepled before him. “It is all mere speculation. I might suggest, though, that you may wish to set the record straight, or some of the less scrupulous of your peers may be eager to share their inferences about your change in status with the press. I believe you have given interviews to the Quibbler in the past?”

Harriet sank deeper into the chair. “Yeah, I have,” she said. “I wish it wasn’t seen as a big deal. It doesn’t feel like a big deal anymore.”

“Just a slow news day, my dear,” Dumbledore assured her. “But probably best to deal with, in case it gains momentum.”

Harriet huffed in annoyance. Why could her life never be simple?

  
  
  



	29. Bludger-borne revelations

Harriet’s room was empty when she returned. The blankets were pulled up over the bed, made but rumpled. The door to the bathroom stood ajar, and everything was quiet. Maybe Robin had gone home. She flopped down into her chair, still in her quidditch gear. Her broom clattered to the ground next to her. She shouldn’t be this tired: it was the weekend, and just after ten in the morning. But the quidditch had exhausted her physically, and the article in the Prophet had wiped her out mentally. Had it really only been yesterday morning that she’d been at Godric’s Hollow?

Eventually, she dragged herself up to put her broomstick away and go for a hot shower. The water felt good, washing along her muscles and through her hair. She leaned against the wall, not really wanting to get out. She couldn’t believe she was fighting with Robin- were they fighting? Surely they didn’t even see each other enough to fight?

However much she wanted to hide in the steamy bathroom all day, she couldn’t. She had to get her application for the Wizarding colleges finished, for a start, plus a go at her ever mounting pile of homework: even Hermione wasn’t more than a week ahead. She reluctantly turned off the water and wrapped herself in a massive towel.

Thus attired, complete with hair-towel turban, an art which she still hadn’t mastered, was not particularly the way she wanted to greet Robin, but when she went back to find some clothes, there he was, sitting on her sofa. “I thought you’d gone,” she said shortly.

“I went to get dressed,” he said, holding out a bar of chocolate. “Peace offering?”

She turned her back on him, rummaging through a drawer for clean underwear, which she pulled on beneath her towel. What was he doing, bringing her presents, and why, why did he have to choose to do so when she’d just been talking to Draco? Even Robin’s own dad thought she’d be better off with Malfoy, though she thought that the Weasleys’ reaction could be quite different. He broke into her train of thought. “Are you ignoring me, Harriet?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe,” she snapped, dropping the towel to the floor to yank on a pair of jeans. She shrugged on her bra, and reached behind her to fasten it, but found his warm fingers there already, hooking it for her. She yanked away, whirling to face him.

“Look, Harriet, I’m sorry,” he said, his hands up as if in surrender. “I’m sorry that I upset you, but you must realise that I can’t go wandering around the castle during term-time.”

“I’ve never been caught using the cloak,” she sniffed.

“Are you willing to risk my life on that?” he asked quietly. “Just think: the child of a sympathiser to the Dark Lord sees me, realises who I am; reports back. My dad’s tortured and killed for his indiscretion, and I’m hunted down and killed- if I’m lucky, without the torture.”

“I don’t see why Voldemort would care,” she snapped at him. “Just because Severus had a kid doesn’t reveal him as a spy.”

“Think, Harriet,” Robin urged. “My mother was muggle- the Dark Lord despises magical-muggle pairings. It’s not the spying that’s the issue; it’s the complete departure from his beliefs, his requirements for his followers. He’s not exactly the forgiving type.”

Harriet really didn’t want to admit that the logic made sense, though she couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree that it did. “Okay, I guess,” she said. “But I thought you wanted to see me play.”

“Did you forget that your windows overlook the pitch?” he asked. She nodded. Actually, the thought that he could see from her windows had entirely slipped her mind. Maybe she should have provided omnioculars. She was reasonably sure that her pair from the World Cup were still in the general detritus at the bottom of her trunk… although where her trunk was was currently a mystery. Dobby had helpfully put it away somewhere. Robin blithely carried on speaking. “Who was your blond friend?” he asked casually.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she found herself stuttering. “Oh, erm, that’s erm, Draco.”

“Draco Malfoy?” Robin questioned.

“Uh, yeah.”

Robin looked thoughtful. “I’ve never met him, although he’s my dad’s godson. The Malfoys don’t know about me, for obvious reasons.”

“You’re… not angry?” she asked. She had no idea why she was so frightened of him being angry- he was no physical threat to her. For a start, she couldn’t imagine him actually hurting her, but even if he did, she had a major advantage in the form of magic. No, she wasn’t frightened of him hurting her so much as she was frightened of hurting him. She didn’t want him to think that he was somehow worse than Draco.

He shrugged. “You’re allowed friends, Harriet,” he said. “From what I know, it’s a powerful though somewhat backwards family…”

“Yeah,” she said, turning away to finish getting dressed. She hadn’t done anything with Draco, so why did she feel so guilty?

She almost missed Robin’s quiet words when he spoke again. “I’d understand,” he said. “I’d understand if you’d prefer to be with him. With someone who has magic, who has power.”

“That’s not it,” she insisted with a sigh. “I don’t care that you don’t have magic. You’re just… not here. I can’t tell anyone about you.”

He was behind her again. She could feel the warmth of his body, only centimetres from hers. “Would you rather call it a day, Harriet?” he asked softly. He was trying to sound level, in control, but his voice still hitched on her name. He knew that they hadn’t been together all that long, but he felt something with her that he’d never had with any other girl.

She considered it for a few seconds. Would she rather be with Malfoy, bearer of massive bunches of roses, or Robin and a few daisies? She didn’t much like overblown roses, she decided. Could she ever be comfortable in the opulent surroundings which Draco had grown up in, when Witch’s Close had felt too grand? She tugged on the rest of her clothes as she thought. She didn’t know it, but Robin’s heart was in his throat awaiting her decision.

“No,” she said. “I just… all of my friends are paired up. Neville and Luna, and even Ron has something more than just a shagging buddy… I want something more than an occasional visit, like I’m in prison, or something.”

“Oh, kitten,” he sighed, wrapping his arms around her from behind, “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard, but it won’t be forever. It’s nearly Christmas, then Easter, then the summer, and you’ll be finished school. We’ll be able to see each other as much as we want then.”

“If they ever let me out,” she grumbled. “It’s always ‘It’s too dangerous. The Death Eaters’ll get you’. I’m not a little kid!”

“It is dangerous,” he said. “It’s dangerous for anyone, and I’d hate to see anything happen to you. But I know it must be so frustrating, cooped up here. I know how you feel- I can’t go wandering around the magical world.”

She turned in the circle of his arms. “But you have the whole muggle world…”

He smiled down indulgently. “I suppose the grass is always greener,” he pointed out. “You want the muggle world, I want the magical one. Look, I can’t promise much, but I’ll try to get here a bit more, okay? Spend the night every so often if you’d like. And maybe, at Christmas, we can talk them into letting us out for the day. Manchester has brilliant Christmas markets.”

She smiled hesitantly, still feeling guilty for entertaining notions of Draco. It was much harder to be angry at Robin when he was here, being so reasonable. “Thanks,” she said.

He drew her over to the sofa, pulling her into his lap like an oversized doll. His slightly rough and tumble approach was so different to the careful society manners of Draco. Robin was… warmth. Yes, warmth, she decided, for all that his skin was just as pale as any Malfoy. He was more real. “Do any of your friends know about me?” he asked. “Or is there anyone that you trust to keep it quiet?”

She nodded. “Ron and Hermione know,” she said. “We’ve been friends since first year. They won’t tell anyone.”

“Maybe I could meet them sometime,” he said. “If that would make you feel that it was all a bit more real, that is.”

“Thanks,” she said with a tentative grin. “I think I’d like that.” Then, thoughtfully: “Would you like to watch the quidditch match with me this afternoon? From here, of course.”

He kissed her hairline tenderly. “I think it would look a bit odd if you just didn’t go,” he pointed out gently. “And I do have other plans this afternoon: it’s only right that we each have time with our friends. What are you doing Wednesday evening?”

“Defence club,” she replied immediately.

“What time does it finish?” he wanted to know. “Maybe I could come by afterwards and stay the night? I don’t have any lectures until eleven on a Thursday.”

“I’d like that,” she said with a smile. “Maybe about eight?”

“It’s a date, kitten,” he promised. “I’ll see you then, okay?”

“Okay,” she said with a smile, arching up to receive his kiss.

He had been right, of course, she realised just after he’d gone. It would have looked very strange, her not being at the match. She forced herself to sit down and check over her Wizarding colleges application in the half hour before lunch started, checking that all the references and examples of work were in order. Lupin had given her a brilliant reference, as had Dumbledore: she was almost surprised. He had not only extolled her virtues as a student, but given over at some length about the challenging situation regarding Defence teaching at the school during Umbridge’s tenure; if indeed the events in her classroom could be considered to be the teaching of Defence.

She was certain it was all present and correct by the time she left for lunch. She’d send it off with Hedwig first thing in the morning. For now, though, she had a lunch to eat and a quidditch match to watch.

Slytherin took the match easily, keeping good possession of the quaffle and scoring three times in rapid succession, opposed to Hufflepuff’s one goal. Harriet saw the snitch seconds after Malfoy wheeled in mid air, heading straight for it. Hufflepuff didn’t stand a chance, but apparently Slytherin were guilty of early celebration.

The hufflepuff beaters had nothing to do with it. No one saw them hit the bludger; it came out of apparently nowhere to slam into Draco just after he caught the snitch. Harriet gasped- but she wasn’t the only one- as Draco flopped forward on his broom, his pale face turning ashen grey. A high, almost girish scream burst from him as he hurtled the few feet to the ground.

Severus was on the pitch in moments, running with black robes flying behind him to where Draco had landed hard on the ground. Ron snorted next to Harriet. “Ferret’s faking,” he snorted derisively. “It was just a bludger.”

“It looked like it hit him pretty hard,” Hermione countered. Harriet said nothing, her eyes fixed on Severus’ careful wand movements as he levitated Draco, still in the awkward position he’d fallen in, and slowly, very carefully, began to move the prone form of his godson. “I hope he’s okay,” the bushy-haired girl commented. She may not have particularly liked Malfoy after all the years of tormenting and name calling, but she was kind-hearted, and would rather not see anyone hurt badly.

Ron gave a derisive snort. “He’ll recover,” he insisted. “Come on, let’s go up to the tower. Seamus’ older brother sent some booze yesterday. It’s muggle stuff, but it’s alright.”

“I didn’t hear that, Ronald,” Hermione said warningly.

“Oh, yeah, right. Erm, Seamus’ brother sent him some really nice apple juice. Let’s go and get some.”

Hermione gave a long suffering sigh and agreed, though the little curve of her lips told them that she wasn’t actually annoyed.

Harriet installed herself in a cosy corner of the common room with Hermione and Imogen. She’d never really spoken to Imogen, in fact, she’d mostly forgotten that the girl existed despite them being in the same year and house. They had taken different subjects after second year, with Imogen concentrating on Arithmancy, Runes and Astronomy. She didn’t speak up much in lessons, and Harriet wasn’t sure how she’d do with boisterous, thoughtless Ron. To be honest, it seemed an unlikely pairing.

She tried to keep track of the discussion, but given the fact that the other girls kept veering off into Arithmancy territory and the way her thoughts kept straying back to Draco’s form thudding to the ground, she was unsuccessful. Eventually, she gave up. “I’ll be back in a bit,” she said to her companions as she stood suddenly. “Just need to check something.”

It wasn’t too far to the hospital wing; the path from the Gryffindor common room to the infirmary was one she’d trodden more than she’d care to count after all her bumps and mishaps over her school career. She was in the entrance when she heard Draco’s plaintive voice.

“Please, Mother, don’t go back,” he pleaded. “Go somewhere else. Don’t go back to him!”

The reply that his mother gave was lost to Harriet as a long arm dragged her into a side room. She gasped, quietly, but Severus spoke low and quickly. “Hush. He won’t talk if he knows we’re here,” he muttered into her ear. She wiggled, and he let her go, having pulled her against his too-thin body, his hip digging painfully into her spine.

“Is he okay?” she hissed back.

“He will be. I should imagine that he’ll probably be here until tomorrow evening- he has to stay completely still whilst his spine heals.”

“His spine?”

“The bludger hit him badly,” Severus explained. “It cracked his backbone, but there isn’t much nerve damage. Now, hush.”

She hushed and listened. “Can’t you remember what it was like when he was in Azkaban?” Draco asked plaintively. “Please, don’t you want to be your own person again?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Draco,” Narcissa Malfoy replied evenly. “You’re hysterical. It must be the pain. Let me get the matron for you.”

“I’m surprised Father even let you come.”

“Don’t be so silly, Draco,” Narcissa chided. “He would have been here too, if he were permitted to leave the manor. He sends his best wishes for a fast recovery.”

Draco didn’t reply, and Harriet could hear the click of high heeled shoes across the tiled floor of the infirmary ward. “What’s going on?” Harriet asked Severus quietly.

He bent so he could murmur into her ear. “Lucius Malfoy has been drugging Narcissa for years, to keep her compliant. When he was in Azkaban, her doses…. lapsed. I may have forgotten to deliver the correct potion to be placed in her food, giving her, instead, a simple calming draught. She returned to lucidity for a year, but when Lucius was released, she was once again drugged.”

“That’s horrible! Why hasn’t someone stopped it?” Harriet wanted to know.

“Who would stop a man so powerful as Lucius from controlling his wife?” Severus asked rhetorically. “In the eyes of society, after all, she is a mere woman, to be used as needed. She’s already provided a suitable heir, after all.” He paused, thoughtful. “I do not think that Draco would take a visit from you well at the moment. He will not wish to seem weak. I think it best if you go, and I will pass on your wishes for his recovery.”

“Thanks,” Harriet said gratefully. If the truth was told, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see Draco either, not as confused as she was at the moment. And she didn’t want to appear too upset, too concerned, in case he thought she was interested in him.

Instead, she scurried back up to Gryffindor tower to try to lure Ron and Hermione away somewhere quiet. This was too weird not to share.

 

 


	30. Visiting hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter 30! I had no idea when I started this fic that it would even be 30 chapters long, and it's not even Christmas yet! Thank you to all the readers who've come this far- knowing that someone is enjoying it keeps me wanting to write more. Please do let me know what you think- I love reading your theories about what's going to happen from my privileged author-omniscience. 
> 
> So, I'd like to say I will be offering up a major chapter for this milestone, but it's not a terribly momentous bit. Just the way it falls, I suppose!

On monday morning, Harriet handed Hedwig her college application, beseeching her owl to be careful with the heavy packet. Hedwig gave her a sidelong look and a gentle nip before winging out of the owlry.

Harriet kept her eye out for Draco at breakfast, but he wasn’t there, or in any of the lessons that day. In fact, he didn’t reappear until lunchtime on Tuesday, looking a bit peaky and sorry for himself, although he was making a good stab at his usual swagger. He slipped into a seat next to Zabini and began picking at his food. After a few seconds, he seemed to sense Harriet’s gaze on him. He smiled at her, and she looked away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught looking.

It wasn’t as if she had many opportunities to talk to Draco. He didn’t appear in the library, where he still sometimes joined them for study sessions. Harriet went down to the quidditch pitch early for practice, in case he came to find her, but he didn’t. She wondered if he’d managed to convince his mother to get away from Lucius, but from the sounds of it, the chances weren’t high. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the idea that someone, even one so reprehensible as Lucius Malfoy, could drug someone like that for years. Surely it was illegal? Than again, when had he ever cared for the law? He’d even managed to buy himself out of Azkaban.

At least Robin’s promised visit on Wednesday distracted her from getting too restless about Draco, though she was perhaps just as fidgety in Defence club, wondering if Robin was waiting for her. Lupin frowned in consternation when she missed a shield for the first time that year, letting in a petrificus. She did manage to dodge the spell, for the most part, ending up with nothing worse than a dead arm, easily reversed. Hermione had her hand over her mouth in shock, amazed that she’d managed to get through. They’d been working together for a couple of weeks, building up more and more powerful spells to see what they could deflect. So far, this was the first time Harriet had failed to deflect anything at all. “Stay behind a moment please Harriet,” Lupin asked quietly at the end. Harriet swallowed her sigh. Hopefully the telling off wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

“Is everything alright?” Lupin asked when the rest of the students had gone. “You seemed… distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Harriet insisted. Lupin didn’t look convinced. He raised an eyebrow. “No, honestly,” she insisted.

“We all know that this is a difficult time for you, Harriet,” Lupin sympathised. “If I can help, I’d like to. I’d certainly hate to see you go downhill in your studies because you are worried about something that can be easily remedied.”

“It’s nothing, I really mean it. Well… it’s just that I’m a bit excited.”

Lupin raised his eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked with a small smile. “Excited?”

Harriet looked at her shoes, trying not to blush. “Yeah. Just, erm, a boy.”

She was surprised by a peal of laughter. “Well,” Lupin said, his grin now wide, “I can’t help you with that one. You go ahead and enjoy. Just… be sensible.”

“But Sir,” Harriet quipped, “what fun is there in being sensible?”

He was still laughing when he waved her out of the room.

She trotted down the corridor, heading back down to her rooms as quickly as she could whilst still maintaining something like the dignity of a final-year student, and not a first year on excess sugar.

“Losing your touch, Potter?” a voice called from down a corridor. She’d learnt not to follow voices down corridors- not that she’d ever want to be down a corridor at night with Pansy Parkinson.

She may still have been struggling with wandless magic, but she was reasonably confident with non-verbal spells by now. A flick of her wand sent a wide-ranging paralysing spell down the corridor- it wasn’t as effective as petrificus, since it wore off after about thirty seconds and could stopped by even basic shielding, but Pansy didn’t appear to have put up any protection, based on the fleshy thump of her body hitting the stone. She held her wand carefully in front of her as she investigated.

Pansy had been lounging against the wall near a suit of armour, but now she was slumped on the stone. “Apparently not, Parkinson,” Harriet said dryly, looking down at the Slytherin. “I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”

Eyes could convey a lot of venom, but, under the spell as she was, Pansy was unable to act on her impulses. With a little grin, Harriet turned away and left the other girl in a heap, knowing that she’d be able to move again very shortly. As soon as she was out of sight, Harriet broke into a little jog to make sure Pansy couldn’t follow her.

She looked about her room excitedly when she got there, but Robin was nowhere in sight. Her heart sank a little- it was getting towards nine o’clock now. Perhaps he’d decided he didn’t want to come after all? She decided to check Severus’ quarters, in case he was still there.

She could hear the raised voices as soon as she got through the floo. “You can’t keep her wrapped in cotton wool forever!” Robin snapped.

“It’s not my choice, Robin!” Severus informed his son hotly. “I don’t say where she can and can’t go, but I know how much danger she could be in. Some evening wandering about isn’t worth it!”

“You know what, Dad? You just contradict yourself all the time. One minute you’re saying she’s so gifted at Defence, that you think she could make a living duelling, and the next you say she can’t be trusted to protect herself. Besides, what could happen- there will be hundreds of muggles about! Even the Dark Lord couldn’t possibly think it’s worth that amount of fallout.”

Severus’ voice went low. “You have no idea of the lengths he will go to,” the potion’s master hissed. He stalked into the living room from the direction of the bedrooms and spied Harriet. He sighed, but said nothing, picking up his outer robes on his way out.

“Dad?” a quieter Robin questioned. “Can you at least ask?”

“I will ask. Don’t get your hopes up,” Severus snapped before leaving.

Robin turned to look at her. “Sorry about that,” he said, rubbing his hand across his face. “I didn’t expect it to be so… heated.”

“What was it about?” she asked curiously.

“Taking you out for a day to the Christmas markets,” he said with a shrug. “Harder than I thought, apparently. Don’t worry, though, we’ll figure something out.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling as he pulled her in for a hug and a kiss. “So, what d’you want to do tonight?” she asked.

“Can you play chess?” he asked with a smile. “I haven’t had a game in ages.” She nodded. She just hoped that he wasn’t as ruthless as Ron: she might even stand a chance of winning.

It was nice to spend an hour or so laughing with Robin as he failed to adequately control his chessmen, then to curl up against his warm body in her bed. He was working on Saturday, he explained, but promised to come and see her for a bit on Sunday. She missed him when he’d gone, but it was easy to lose herself in her work and her friends. She’d expected some repercussion from stunning Pansy, but none came. The Slytherins ignored her, with the notable exception of Draco who joined her at a table in the library, but said little more than good morning, he was fine, thank you for asking.

She was half asleep on Saturday evening when the floo flared to life. She sat up scrabbling for her wand, but when her nocturnal visitor came into focus about two feet from the bed, it was only Robin. “Wanted to see you,” he explained, slipping into the bed next to her. “My place was lonely.”

“Cold feet!” she squealed as he pressed them against her legs. He grunted an apology and wrapped her up in his arms. She snuggled close despite the iciness of his appendages- she figured she could come in from quidditch practice tomorrow and freeze him instead.

By the time she got back, though, Robin had returned to his own room to get dressed; or so the teasing note he’d left on her bed would suggest- he invited her to hunt him down. It didn’t take too long; she found him reclining amongst his giant pillows with a book. “Morning, beautiful,” he almost purred when she flopped down next to him. He leaned in for a kiss, not objecting in the least when she clambered atop him to deepen it. His hands strayed to her breasts, stroking them through the fabric of her quidditch robes. “Mmm,” he groaned when she came up for air, “how do you feel about shower sex?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Erm, well, I’m still kind of bleeding…” she said. It wasn’t much anymore, but she still hurt, and her attempts at healing spells had gotten her nowhere. She’d thought about going to Madam Pomfrey, but it seemed far too embarrassing. She was healing, just slowly.

“You’re still bleeding?” Robin asked. “Do you mean you’re still on your period? You should have realised by now that it doesn’t bother me.”

Harriet shook her head. “No, it’s just from, well, you know.”

His frown deepened. “It’s been a week. There’s no way you should still be bleeding, especially not the second time.” he stood and offered her his hand. “Come on,” he said.

“Where?” she wanted to know, letting him pull her to her feet.

“Getting something to stop the bleeding,” he explained shortly, and towed her down the corridor to Severus’ private lab. She tugged back on his hand, thinking that disturbing him on a Sunday brewing session was hardly a brilliant idea. Robin tapped on the door and pushed it open, not waiting for a response.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” Severus snapped from his position at the far side of the room, bent over a steaming cauldron. Harriet expected Robin to just fetch some potion or other from the wall of shelves to their left and go, but instead he tugged her into the room. Severus sighed and cast a stasis charm on his brew. “What is it?” he asked, leaning one hip on the marble top of his brewing bench.

“Harriet’s bleeding,” Robin began. “She’s been bleeding for a week, since we had sex.” Harriet gasped at his bald words, and felt her face flush crimson. Even Severus was looking a little bit pink.

“For Merlin’s sake, boy, what did you do to her?” he asked rhetorically. “First time?”

“No, second,” Robin provided. Harriet stared at the floor, wanting it to swallow her.

Severus frowned. “That’s unusual,” he commented. “Harriet, take your jeans and knickers off and hop up onto the table, please.” He turned to the sink in the corner and began washing his hands.

“I’m fine, honestly,” she said, trying to pull away from Robin, without success. “It doesn’t hurt much.”

Severus looked back over his shoulder at her. “You should not bleed for more than a day or so after the loss of virginity,” he lectured, “and there should not be any bleeding following that. It’s possible that idiot boy has caused you some injury; you may let me see, or I can take you to Madam Pomfrey, but you cannot allow it to continue untreated.” Robin grumbled at being called an idiot, but pushed Harriet towards Severus’ workbench with a hand in the small of her back.

“It’s less than it was,” she wheedled. “I don’t need help.”

Severus raised an eyebrow and opened a cupboard near the sink. From it, he produced a strange, three legged stool with a curved half-circular seat. It looked like nothing so much as half a toilet seat on legs. He set it in front of Harriet. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to know it’s purpose: she doubted it would be one she liked.

“What is that?” she asked, curiosity winning out. She’d never seen such a contraption.

“It’s a birthing stool,” Severus said flatly. “You were born on it. I’ve seen all of you already, Harriet, even if it was seventeen years ago. I thought that you could do with the reminder that I do know what I’m doing here. I trained as a mediwizard and midwife.”

Under the stern gaze of two sets of sloe-black eyes, she decided that this was mildly less embarrassing than explaining the problem to Madam Pomfrey, though not by much. At least she would be spared being seen going to the hospital wing. Biting her lip, she undid the button of her jeans and hooked her fingers under the waistband of her knickers, pulling them off in one go and setting them on the workbench. She tried to ignore her nakedness as she braced her arms on the tabletop to boost herself up.

Robin placed his hands around her waist to help her up onto the high workbench. the marble was cold against her bottom, and she couldn’t help the shiver. Robin wrapped a warm arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he muttered. “It’ll be over in a minute.”

Severus’ washed and spell cleansed hand was calloused against her knee. “Let me see, Harriet,” he instructed gently. Still postbox-red, she parted her legs.

Severus bent her knee up, supporting it on his hip, and Robin held the other. She felt like meat on display. Severus reached for her and gently spread her lips. She closed her eyes in mortification as she felt his hands on her. Her breath hitched, and she let out a little moan of pain as his fingers probed at the ragged flesh at her entrance.

“Robin, can you leave us for a moment?” Severus asked firmly. It may have been worded as a question, but the demand in his tone was clear.

“But…”

Severus shot his son a look that stopped Robin in his tracks. He kissed Harriet on the top of her head and gently set her leg back on the counter before leaving, shutting the door behind him. “Harriet, this looks like you were taken very roughly,” Severus said quietly when Robin had gone. “Was this against your will?”

Harriet opened her eyes in shock. “No!” she cried out. She looked down in embarrassment again. “He was really gentle. But it hurt more than the first time. I tried to heal it, but it just won’t work.”

“You tried to heal…” Severus trailed off. “Harriet, did you heal yourself after the first time?”

“Well, yeah,” she said.

He leaned against the counter heavily. “I apologise. I should have told you. I had presumed that you knew.” He looked up at her. “The rending of a woman’s virginity is one of the few wounds that should not be magically healed. The healing spells thicken the flesh that was torn, and increase blood flow to the area to assist in healing. The second time that you engaged in intercourse, the old wounds reopened, along with the newly weakened areas caused by the healing. As you have discovered, the end result is a painful mess. I can clean you up, but you’ll be sensitive for a while. If the bleeding hasn’t stopped by this time tomorrow, come back to me, and I’ll do the same again.” He turned back to his shelves of potions, selecting a green bottle and a little pile of cotton swabs. She hissed at the sting when he sponged the potion onto her torn flesh. “I would have been furious with Robin had he hurt you,” Severus muttered as he worked, setting a bloodstained cloth on the workbench. She stared at the shelving opposite, over Severus’ head, trying to ignore what was happening.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Harriet assured him quietly. “He’s good, and kind. You’re right, he probably is too good for me.”

Severus looked up and met her eyes. “Too good for you? I am concerned for your welfare more than his, Harriet,” he explained. “You were, are, new to your anatomy and your feelings. I walked in on Robin and a girlfriend when he was thirteen years old. I didn’t know if he could be patient enough to wait for you to develop in your own time.” He completed his ministrations and helped her down from his workbench. By the time she’d pulled on her clothes again, he’d cleared up the bloodied swabs and cleaned off his bench. It looked like nothing had happened.

He ushered her ahead of him, towards the living room. Robin was pacing before the fireplace, Sheba cradled in his arms. The cat didn’t look happy to be held so tightly. He looked up with relief as soon as they appeared. “What is it?” he asked breathlessly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Robin. I was merely concerned at the extent of Harriet’s injury. It would appear, though, that the cause was an attempted healing.” Severus solicitously guided Harriet to a seat and swished his wand at the kettle, causing it to swing over the fire and begin heating. “It would be wise, though, to wait a week or two before resuming any… amorous activities.”

“So it’s all sorted? You’re fine?” Robin asked her, watching her closely. She nodded and smiled. He wrapped an arm around her in relief. “Wait…” he said slowly. “Dad, you didn’t think I’d hurt her deliberately, did you?”

Severus lifted a shoulder disdainfully. “It was a possibility. I had to be certain that it was not the case, hence I needed to speak to Harriet alone.”

Harriet winced as Robin exploded next to her. “How could you!” he cried. “I’d never do her harm like that!”

“Be quiet, child!” Severus snapped. “Honestly, Robin. There’s no need for this. It was a valid possibility.”

“Robin, it’s fine,” Harriet said quietly. “Nothing to worry about.”

The sentiment apparently didn’t placate Robin. If a man of close to six feet could be said to flounce, he did, slamming his bedroom door. Severus only lifted an eyebrow and poured the hot water into the teapot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, don't you love a grumpy teenage boy? :)


	31. Hogsmeade again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one has been so long coming! It's been a busy time at work for both myself and my trusty proofreader, and I must admit, it's getting a little harder to write as I start getting into deep plot. I'll still be carrying on though, don't worry!

The days began to fly by at Hogwarts. Life felt… almost normal. Severus and Robin sorted their difference out, or at least acted like it around Harriet. The Daily Prophet became very interested in an adviser to the Minister advocating stricter rules and controls on magical creatures, and seemed to forget that Harry Potter was now Harriet.  As for the girl in question, she found herself happy to spend more time in the Gryffindor common room as people seemed to forget that she was ever male. Seamus and Dean began to treat her like they did the other girls, with teasing that sometimes became flirtatious, and sometimes downright ribald. She blushed at first, but she knew they did it to anyone female, so it was actually reassuring rather than offensive. She started to joke back.

Lavender now ignored her completely, although Harriet was sure she caught a sympathetic glance from Parvati on occasion. It was in Imogen and Fay that she found a bit more friendship- she had no idea if Ron had said something to his now-official girlfriend, or if they pair were just quite astute. It was from Fay that she finally learnt some of the haircare charms that every witch other than she and Hermione seemed to know, and Imogen was spectacular at transfiguring clothing, something which was rarely taught in lessons. She, like Ron, came from a family that struggled for money, and so she had learnt to use her skills at transfigurations to make the cheap clothes she could afford look much nicer. Harriet idly wondered if Ginny did much the same thing.

Suddenly, it was Hogsmeade weekend again, and Harriet was desperately buying Christmas presents. For most of her friends, she bought some sweets- it was always a safe bet. She’d told Hermione that the book from her library was a Christmas present, but bought a leather-bound notebook as well. She’d finally decided that after more than six years of friendship, Ron deserved a new broom, but she also bought him a book of broom care- she really hoped he wouldn’t drag this one along the ground like a two year old with a teddy bear.

It was Robin and Severus that stumped her. She eventually found a set of three beautiful raven’s feather quills for Severus, but she wondered if she should buy more for him. He had helped her so much this year… but she also had no idea what he might want. She looked at, and discarded a few books on potions: given the state of his bookshelves, she guessed that he would have anything she could find. She added a bottle of blood red ink, then some in Slytherin green, just so he didn’t think she was commenting on his propensity to spew red ink over all his student’s work- even if she was. A little bag of Honeydukes’ toffees seemed likely to go down well too. If his jaws were stuck with toffee, he couldn’t reprimand anyone.

Robin, though, what to get Robin? It surprised her to realise that she didn’t know all that much about him. He liked rock music, but she knew nothing about the genre whatsoever, nor was she likely to find anything to suit that taste in Hogsmeade. The wizarding world tended to be very backwards in musical taste in comparison to the muggles. She knew that he liked ancient history and Greek literature, but what would there be that she could buy him that he didn’t already have? She knew nothing about that either. Morosely, she decided that since she seemingly barely knew him, could she really expect the relationship to last?

It was Hermione who came to her rescue. Once Harriet had confided in her, Hermione screwed her face up oddly and darted the the musty far corners of the bookshop. It was less than five minutes before she emerged triumphant, a cobweb clinging to her hair. She thrust a book at Harriet. “I saw this last year,” she said.

Harriet squinted at the dusty tome. She could believe it hadn’t been touched in a year. She turned it to see the title on the spine. “Magical myths?” she asked.

“Yeah!” Hermione replied excitedly. “It’s all about the magical roots of the myths and fairy tales- Greek, Egyptian, Celtic, Germanic… it’s all in there.”

Harriet raised an eyebrow and flicked through the musty book. A chapter title caught her eye- “Aristophanes the mage- Peace and Lysistrata.” he read. “Lysistrata- do you know what it’s about?”

“Women,” Hermione informed him. “The women end the war by manipulating the men.” She looked sheepish. “My Mum’s really into the Greeks. Hence why she called me Hermione.”

Harriet nodded, though she wasn’t quite sure of the connection. She supposed that Hermione must be a Greek name. Her whole knowledge of the world was woefully inadequate, she realised: she’d spent six years feeling that she couldn’t keep up with wizarding culture because of her Muggle start in life. Now, though, it felt like she didn’t understand muggle culture either. She sighed deeply.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked. Harriet glanced around. They were in a hidden corner of the bookshop, and she couldn’t hear any other students. “I just don’t fit anywhere,” she admitted. “I don’t fit in the muggle world because I missed out on all the muggle stuff by being here. But I can’t fit in in the wizarding world either, because I was raised as a muggle. I don’t even fit in with girl because I used to a boy, or the boys because I’m a girl now.”

“You fit in with Ron and I,” Hermione said quietly.

“Really?” Harried asked. “Ron… well, he’s with Imogen a lot these days. And you understand so much more about the world- both worlds- than I do.”

Hermione sighed. “Everyone’s different, Harriet. No one knows everything.” Her lips quirked into a smile. “Not even me.”

Harriet couldn’t help but smile along with her on that one. If Hermione could joke about it… she squashed her feelings of inadequacy down. “Lunch?” she asked hopefully, knowing that Hermione would probably be on duty somewhere, guarding lower year students.

Hermione surprised her. “Lunch,” she confirmed, putting her arm around Harriet’s shoulder. “I bet Ron and Neville are in the Three Broomsticks.”

A large butterbeer sounded an excellent idea to Harriet, so she quickly paid for the book and headed out with Hermione. As they wandered down the high street, the first snow of the year started to fall. A group of fourth years ran past, trying to catch snowflakes in their mouths.

They were late for lunch, so they’d managed to miss a lot of the excited students, who had all dashed out to see the snow. “You’d never believe they spent the winter in Scotland,” Ron scoffed. “It’s as if they’ve never seen snow before.” He and Imogen were perched on the tall stools at the end of the bar- it was a privileged spot, and seventh years wouldn;t countenance the younger years taking the bar stools on a Hogsmeade weekend. Harriet was reminded of school trips out from muggle primary school, where the ‘cool kids’ sat at the back of the bus. She hadn’t been on many school trips- if there were any which required any financial contribution, the Dursley’s wouldn’t pay, though, of course, Dudley went. Ron flagged down Madam Rosmerta. “Can we have some more butterbeers, please?” he asked. She refilled his glass and poured another two for Harriet and Hermione with a smile.

It all happened fast: Madam Rosmerta set their glasses on the high bar just as three Slytherin fifth years barrelled into the pub, laughing, pushing and shoving. One of them sent his friend flying into the bar, knocking the glasses over and soaking Rosmerta, Harriet and a wooden counter in pale, frothy liquid. Rosmerta gasped and Harriet swore. Hermione, of course, was the first to react, jumping up in time to avoid the splash that headed her way, and to raise her wand to siphon up the spilled drinks.

The boy who’d hit the bar laughed, having avoided the spray. “Be more careful, lads!” Madam Rosmerta admonished.

“We don’t need to listen to filthy squibs!” the pusher (Harriet thought he was called Bruce, but couldn’t be sure) called, sauntering out again with his gang.

“Oh,” madam Rosmerta said softly, and then seeing the shards of broken glass left behind as the liquid zipped up to Hermione’s wand to be banished. “Oh, dear…” She started picking up shards of glass.

“Idiots!” Ron snapped at the fifth years. “What’cha think you’re playing at?”

Harriet finally recovered from her shock. “Don’t,” she said to Madam Rosmerta. “reparo.” The shards of glass came back together into a whole. She handed it over to the barmaid. “Don’t listen to them. They’re idiots,” she said quietly, low enough that no one outside their little group could hear.

Rosmerta gave a quivering smile. “Don’t worry yourself about me,” she said. “I’m used to it by now.” She poured them more butterbeer, and took food orders for Harriet and hermione, relaying them through to the kitchens.

“Did you know?” Harriet hissed to her companions when she thought Rosmerta was out of earshot. “About her being a squib, I mean? Because those Slytherins did.”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah. Bill mentioned it once. It’s kind of common knowledge, I think.”

“No witch would take a job like this,” a quiet voice said from the other side of the bar.

Harriet looked up in shock. She hadn’t noticed Madam Rosmerta coming back. “I’m sorry!” she spluttered. “I wasn’t… I didn’t…”

Rosmerta patted her hand. “It’s quite alright, dear. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But I’m just a barmaid, you see- I don’t need magic in my job. It’s far too lowly a position for someone with magic. But I’m happy here- you don’t get too many people like those youngsters. Most people prefer to just pretend that squibs don’t exist.” She passed the sandwiches over the countertop. “Now, one ham and cheese, and one Coronation chicken…”

Harriet couldn’t stop thinking about Madam Rosmerta. She seemed pretty content with her lot in life, Harriet mused. Not like Filch, but maybe he was meant to be a grumpy person. It might have nothing to do with his magic, or lack thereof.

The subject was still weighing heavily on her mind on Monday night. Severus was pushing harder than he had since fifth year, and Harriet’s control over her occlumantic shields kept slipping. She yelped in frustration as he broke through again, forcing a memory of Dudley, and not a pleasant one. She didn’t have many pleasant memories of Dudley. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” she demanded.

Severus said nothing, only handed her a cup of tea. She hadn’t noticed him making any tea, but the cup was steaming and fresh. Tea, for Severus, she’d discovered, was like chocolate for Lupin. A cure for all ills. She took a sip grumpily. “Why’d you have to be so mean?” she asked in a sulk.

“Because the Dark Lord will not be kind to you,” Severus explained levelly. “I do not teach you this for my health, nor for yours. I teach you in the hope that you will be able to hide your plans from the Lord when you meet again. and I believe that your meeting may come sooner rather than later.”

Harriet sat up straight at that. “Why?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

Snape, conversely, sank deeper into his armchair. “The Headmaster is weakening,” he admitted. “His health is failing. The curse to which he was subjected… it cannot be held at bay for much longer. The Dark Lord knows that his adversary is fading. You must be ready.”

“But… the prophecy? Neville?” Harriet pointed out in confusion.

Severus smiled, a thin, lipped, tight smile that didn’t really seem joyful. “The Dark Lord does not seem to have considered the fact that your change in gender may have changed the nature of the prophecy. He is focused on you, not Longbottom. In addition, I think we must continue to prepare in as many ways as we can- not just you, or Neville, but all of us. Why do you think Professor Lupin is running his defence clubs? He is attempting to prepare even the younger students with defensive magic that would normally be considered far beyond their ability level, because this is a battle that will involve many. It is a war that has already claimed too many lives.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Harriet asked quietly. “He killed my parents. He killed Cedric, and in a way, he killed Sirius. He tried to kill Ginny…”

“I do know. I simply wished to bring to your attention the fact that the end may be coming… and for the side of the light of the dark, who can tell?” He spread his fingers before him, inspecting them. “Be prepared, Harriet. I am not intending cruelty: I am advocating preparedness.”

“I know,” Harriet said with a deep sigh. “It’s just so hard! I thought it would be easier, because it’s not my job anymore, to kill Voldemort… but it’s just as bad.”

Severus had flinched at Voldemort’s name. “I wish I could help more,” he told her gently. “Unfortunately, I can see no way in which I can make this situation any easier for you. I apologise.”

“It’s not like it’s your fault,” she pointed out. “Well, I guess it’s kind of your fault, because wasn’t it you who told Voldemort the prophecy?”

Severus inclined his head in acquiescence. “It was, although not willingly. I was not so good an occlumens then.” Harriet nodded. She knew that Robin must have already been born when the prophecy was made: Severus had already turned against Voldemort, though he was simply trying to keep his distance. “Albus had asked me to keep watch whilst he interviewed Sybill. He was wary of Death Eaters; not knowing what I would hear. Luckily, Aberforth blundered in half way through to get me to come downstairs… he thought there was a follower of the Dark Lord in the bar.”

“I heard he threw you out,” Harriet said.

Severus shook his head with a small smile. “No, though that was the story put about to explain to the Dark Lord why I heard only part of the prophecy. I was at least able to conceal that part from him when he combed through my mind.”

“So, who taught you occlumency?” Harriet wanted to know. “I mean, you didn’t always know it, so…”

“I am a natural occlumens,” Severus said. “But you are quite correct, even those of us with an aptitude for mental secrecy usually cannot learn all we need to know completely alone. It was Albus who helped me refine my skills.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Now, Miss Potter, it is getting late. That’s quite enough for this evening. Remember to practice your meditative techniques: you are starting to lose your grounding.”

“Did you know that Madam Rosmerta is a squib?” Harriet blurted out suddenly, wanting to prove to Severus that not all squibs in the magical world became grumpy like Filch.

“I did,” he said.

“Well, she seems happy enough, not having magic.”

“She would give you that impression, yes,” he said. “After all, she’s had her memories wiped enough to keep anyone slightly confused about all the bad things that have happened.”

“Her memories have been wiped? Memories of what?” Harriet demanded.

“Let us just say that she is not viewed with the utmost respect by the less scrupulous members of our community,” Severus said smoothly. “She has been used as something of a sexual plaything by many on the dark side, not least some students. She is seen as… disposable.”

“That’s terrible!” Harriet exclaimed. “Why doesn’t someone do something?”

Severus raised a shoulder. “Who?” he asked. “Who is this person that should, that could, step in? I cannot look after everyone in the world, Harriet. She is not harmed in any lasting manner, and she has no memory of the encounters… there is little that can be done.”

“Dumbledore could give her shelter at Hogwarts!”

“In what capacity?” Severus enquired evenly. “There are not so very many roles for squibs in a magical school. The house elves could as easily do the role officially assigned to Mr. Filch; although they could not supervise detentions and monitor students as he does. Albus views her in much the same way as the rest of our world views squibs: expendable, disposable, faulty.”

“But you don’t.”

“And I feel certain that Rosmerta’s father probably didn’t view her as disposable either,” he informed Harriet quietly. “Please, do not trouble yourself over her yet: her situation is merely a symptom, no matter how terrible it is. You must go to the root of the problem: the view that blood purity is the pinnacle of achievement. Aid in the defeat of the Dark Lord, Harriet. Only then can you begin to root out the other problems with our way of life.”

He kept his gaze firmly on Harriet until she nodded in reluctant agreement. “Okay,” she said.

He sat back in his chair again. “Now, before you go- am I to presume that you will be staying at the school for the coming holidays?” he asked. Harriet nodded again. “Then, I wonder if you would like to join Robin and I for dinner on Christmas Eve? As my absence on Christmas day would be noted, we celebrate together on the night before, and Robin would like you there, if you are amenable.”

“Yes, please,” Harriet said happily.

“Good,” Severus said. “Now, off you go. I shall see you in lessons.” Harriet stood and reached for the pot of floo. “Oh, Harriet?” Severus said just as she was about to step into the fire. She turned to look at him. His face was contorted into an odd grimace. “You may invite Weasley and Granger.”

“Thank you!” Harriet said. Severus waved her off, and she went through the floo to her own rooms.

 

 


	32. Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice fluffy chapter for you! I was absolutely determined to get Christmas written before Christmas actually hit- might not manage Christmas day, we shall see!
> 
> On another note, my loyal proofreader's been working a tonne of overtime lately, so the mistakes here are entirely my own. Apologies if it's a bit more rough than usual!

“Harriet, what on earth are you wearing?” Hermione demanded.

Harriet looked down. Her clothes didn’t look dirty… “What?” she asked.

Hermione huffed. “You can’t wear jeans and a jumper to a Christmas party!”

“Why not?”

Ron inched past Hermione. “Dunno, mate,” he said, heading for the fireplace and a chair. He suspected that this could take a while, and he could at least be comfortable.

Hermione sighed. “Just wear something nice,” she told her friend. “Like the dress we bought in the summer.”

“It’s too cold,” Harriet said. “It’s got short sleeves.”

Hermione sighed. “Are you a witch or not?” she asked. “You were just saying last week how much you liked transfiguring all your clothes different colours. Use your magic to put some sleeves on it! And wear a cardigan!”

“I… I don’t think I own a cardigan…” Harriet said.

Hermione huffed and strode to the wardrobe. She yanked out the green dress and a pair of black tights and chucked then at Harriet. “Put those on.”

Harriet retreated to the bathroom to change. The short sleeved dress was easy to add sleeves too, it was true, but she tugged nervously on the hem. It suddenly seemed very short, hitting above the knee, unlike her school skirts, which she’d finally grown used to wearing. The thick black tights helped a bit, but they didn’t do much to hide the shape of her legs. She supposed it wasn’t any different to wearing jeans, really… she just felt so _exposed_.  With one last nervous yank on the hem, she let herself out of the bathroom.

“Much better,” Hermione said with a satisfied grin. She handed Harriet a short, fitted white cardigan.

“I don’t see what was wrong with her before,” Ron said from his slump in the armchair before the fire. “It’s not like a party at Malfoy Manor…”

“No, but you should look nice,” Hermione said stiffly, with a glance at the slightly frayed cuff of Ron’s jumper. She was wearing wide-legged, flowing trousers and a silky pale blue blouse. “After, all have you ever seen Professor Snape in jeans?” Harriet wanted to point out that, actually she had, and that he had a reasonable grasp of muggle fashion, unlike most of the wizarding world, but Hermione barely paused for breath before continuing. “Now, shall we go? Where are Snape’s rooms anyway?”

“Erm, down in the dungeons,” Harriet said.

“Well, I knew that!” Hermione riposted. “But where?”

“To be honest, I’m not really where the entrance is,” she admitted. “I know there’s a way through his classroom, but I just use to floo.”

“You have a floo connection to Snape’s rooms?” Ron asked incredulously after a beat of stunned silence.

“Er, yeah?” Harriet said. “Well, with the occlumency lessons and everything…”

“Harriet,” Hermione said softly, as if speaking to a frightened animal, “we thought you were doing the occlumency lessons in his classroom.”

Harriet shook her head, frowning as she looked between her friends. “No, in his living room. What’s the problem?”

“Well,” Hermione ventured after a moment of careful thought, having shushed Ron, “it's not really normal, is it, teachers having access to our rooms.”

Harriet shrugged. “McGonagall comes into Gryffindor tower.”

“But that’s McGonagall,” Ron burst out, “not Snape!”

“Harriet,you’re a girl. Professor Snape shouldn’t have access like that to your room- he’s a male teacher. It;s not even like you’re in a dormitory, where there are other people to act as… chaperones.”

“That’s rubbish!” Harriet snapped. “Severus would never…”

“Severus?” Ron cut across her. “You call him _Severus_?”

“Well, I can’t very well call him ‘greasy git’ to his face now, can I?” Harriet demanded petulantly. “Look do you want to come or not? Because if you don’t want to, go away and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“It’s okay, Harriet, we still want to come,” Hermione said soothingly. “It’s just a… a bit of a shock. We didn’t realise you were so, well, close to Professor Snape.”

Harriet wasn’t convinced that it was ‘okay’- Ron looked slightly green. “Where did you think I was meeting Robin?” she asked pragmatically. Both her friends looked shocked, and shook their heads.

“It hadn’t even entered my mind to ask, actually,” Hermione said. Ron agreed with her. “Let’s just go,” Hermione decided. “We can discuss this later.” Harriet really hoped they’d forget. Maybe Severus would be serving plenty of alcohol- that might make their memories short.

She offered her pot of floo powder. “Just ask for ‘Severus’ living room,’” she advised. “it’s not connected to anything else, so you should be okay.”

Hermione took a pinch of the emerald powder and whirled through. Ron, though, hesitated. “Has he... taken advantage?” he asked urgently. “Because if he has, I’ll kill him- I don’t care if he’s a teacher.”

“He’s never even been here,” Harriet sighed. “I always go to his quarters.”

“Doesn’t mean he hasn’t… you know,” Ron said, his ears pink.

“He hasn’t, Ron,” Harriet assured her friend. “He wouldn’t.”

“But he’s a Death Eater…” Ron said. Harriet held up her hand to silence him and held out the pot of floo powder again.

“He’s not. Just trust me: this is something Dumbledore’s right on. Now, come on, we’ve already been too long.”

Ron reluctantly took a pinch of the powder, and Harriet followed in short order to find a shocked, blinking Ron watching as Severus solicitously asked after Hermione’s health. The usually voluminously-clad teacher was more simply attired in black trousers and a soft, open collared blue shirt which made his hair pick up the same tones- hair which was meticulously washed and soft. Even Harriet hadn’t seen him so… grease free. “Evening, Sir,” she said cautiously, unsure about using his first name in front of her friends.

“Good evening, Harriet,” Severus replied with a smile. “And to you as well, Mr. Weasley.”

“Uh, er… hi, um, Professor,” Ron stuttered, apparently so shocked at Severus behaving so solicitously.

“I believe that, just for tonight, we may dispense with the formalities,” Severus intoned. “Do feel free to call me by my given name.”

“Er, thanks,” Ron said dazedly.

Harriet was so amused by her friend’s discomfort, she didn’t even notice Robin creeping up behind her. She started as he slipped his arms around her waist, but smiled and leaned back into him when she realised what was happening. “Hello, kitten,” he murmured softly into her hair, leaving a chaste kiss on her forehead before he released her and stepped forward. “Hermione, and Ron, I presume?” he asked with a hint of a smile. He extended his hand to Hermione first. “I’m Robin.”

“Blimey,” Ron muttered with a scowl, “no one could mistake you for not being a Snape.”

Robin inclined his head in a very Severus- like gesture. “I’m told there is a certain resemblance,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m informed that you, too, bear a family resemblance?”

Ron didn't have a chance to do more than glower before a loud thundering from the direction of the main door distracted both he and Robin from what looked to be a beautiful mutual dislike. “Hagrid, I should think,” Severus said dryly, going to answer the door..

“Hagrid’s coming?” Harriet asked in surprise.

“Yeah,” Robin declared with a grin, following his father to the door.

“I thought no one was meant to know _he_ existed?” Ron hissed, perhaps a little louder than was strictly necessary, all whilst jabbing a finger at Robin. “How come Hagrid knows about him?”

Hagrid certainly heard him, although Harriet would have been surprised if Severus and Robin hadn’t too, though their faces showed no sign of it.. “Well, now, It’d have been cruel to keep the lad all cooped up all summer,” the half-giant informed the redhead, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Robin and I ‘ave ‘ad all kinds of capers when you lot all go home for the holidays.” He ruffled Robin’s silky hair. “Here, lad,” he said, handing off a bulky, clumsily wrapped package.

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Robin said with a lopsided smile. Harriet didn’t expect the sudden surge of jealously that rose in her. Robin… he was hers. He was supposed to be hers. Severus: well, he was Robin’s dad. She could hardly begrudge a father’s place, but she’d felt like Robin’s was hers alone in the magical world; that she didn’t have to share him. And with Hagrid… Hagrid who’d been her very first introduction to wizardry, in that hut on the rock, Hagrid and his pink umbrella.

Obviously, she knew it was different. You couldn’t compare the relationship she had with Robin to one with Hagrid- or she most certainly hoped not. The unfortunate mental image alone was enough to make her wince. But she still somehow felt cheated, on both fronts.

“I didn’t know that you knew Robin, Hagrid,” she said softly. tucking herself close to Robin’s side.

“Aye, known ‘im since he were a bairn,” Hagrid said cheerfully, apparently completely missing the tension. “Showed ‘im all kinds of stuff.”

“Fire crabs are still not acceptable playthings for a five year old, Hagrid,” Severus said dryly, handing the gamekeeper a rather sizeable glass of firewhiskey.

“Well, th’ burns healed up well enough. You couldn’t even see them a couple of weeks later.” He ruffled a big hand through Robin’s hair again.

Severus just sighed, a long suffering sigh. “You three miscreants, a drink?” he asked. “I’m not giving you alcohol on school grounds, but there’s butterbeer and juice on the sideboard over there. It’ll be about half an hour until our dinner is ready. Please excuse me a moment.”

“Nice t’ see you, Ron, ‘Mione, Harriet,” Hagrid said, clapping Hermione so hard on the back that she almost stumbled.

“You too, Hagrid,” she said with a smile, going to perch on the sofa next to the gamekeeper. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Always have Christmas Eve dinner with the Professor,” Hagrid said. “And Robin, o’course.”

Harriet went to stand by the sideboard, picking up a glass and reaching for the pitcher of butterbeer. Robin wrapped an arm around her waist again. “You look beautiful,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” she answered shortly.

“What’s wrong, Harriet?” he asked softly.

“Nothing,” she lied, pouring herself a drink. “Hermione, Ron, what would you like?” she called.

“Butterbeer, mate, unless you find the booze,” Ron responded.

“Butterbeer would be great, thanks,” Hermione called. Harriet poured them, and shook free of Robin to hand the drinks to her friends.

“So,” she asked, “What animals have you got in at the moment, Hagrid?”

Hagrid’s face lit up. “Ooh, you should come down to see,” he replied. “I’ve an orphaned unicorn foal- she’s a right lovely creature, though you can’t get too close just yet- she’s a bit skittish, like.”

“I’d love to meet a unicorn,” Robin said wistfully. He’d settled on the floor near the fireplace. Harriet was trying not to look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her, unwavering.

“Maybe you could,” Hermione suggested. “After all, there’s barely anyone around at the moment. Perhaps if you used Harriet’s invisibility cloak…”

Severus chose that exact moment to come back into the living room and Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth, realising that she’d just given away the existence of the item that had kept Snape from finding them on so many nocturnal wanders.

“That may be possible,” Severus said mildly. “So long as the creature isn’t visible from the castle.”

“She’s out on t’other side of my hut,” Hagrid assured him. “No way any o’ the kids’d see him.”

Harriet said nothing. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Robin stood. “Hey, Harriet, would you help me bring the presents out? The poor tree looks really lonely.”

“Um, okay?” she replied, slowly standing and leaving her barely-touched drink on the table. He took her hand and led her into his bedroom.

“Kitten, what’s the matter?” he asked quietly, looking down at her. She didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she caught one of his model birds, stroking it’s painted wings. They’d spent an afternoon with him naming each of the birds for her: this one was a swallow, all black and white and pointed. When she didn’t answer, he started to guess. “Is it having your friends here?” he asked. “Are you nervous? My dad’s promised to be on his best behaviour, and not shout at them.”

“It’s nothing, okay?” she said flatly.

His fingers brushed her cheek. “I know you better than that,” he told her. “Just tell me, kitten. Are you ill? Have I done something to offend you?”

She nibbled her lower lip. “I… just didn’t realise that you knew Hagrid,” she said.

“I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. He looked after me a lot, when I was a kid staying here. Why, don’t you like Hagrid?”

“That’s just it,” she burst out, a little louder than she’d intended. “Hagrid was the first wizard I met! Well, I suppose he’s not really a wizard, but…”

“But the pink umbrella,” Robin supplied with a little smile.

Harriet nodded. “Yeah,” she said. she let the swallow go, watching it spring up to join its avian companions. “I suppose… I’m just used to Hagrid kind of being mine, you know? And you being mine, too…” She paused a moment. “I just thought that the amount of time I’ve spent with Hagrid, and he never mentioned you. It feels like everyone was keeping a big secret from me.”

“He was keeping a secret,” Robin pointed out gently. “So was dad, and Dumbledore… but they weren’t keeping it from you. They were keeping it from everyone. I thought you realised that.”

“I did,” Harriet said. “Well, I thought I did. I guess, I’d just never realised that you’d know other people in the magical world. I thought I was special.”

“Oh, Harriet, you are special,” he breathed, pulling her into an embrace and kissing the top of her head. “You’re my Harriet, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“That can’t be true,” she countered.

“It is,” he said flatly, with no room for discussion. “Yes, I’m friends with Hagrid- he’s like a particularly weird uncle, I suppose. But you’re my… my… well, my girlfriend. But that doesn’t seem a good enough word, even though we haven’t known each other all that long.” He smiled down at her, one side of his mouth higher than the other, giving him an odd, slightly dopey look. “I hope we’re together a very long time, Harriet,” he finally finished.

“So do I,” she agreed.

“Good,” he said. “Now, I think we should probably get the presents before everyone starts to think we’ve run off to fuck in a corner somewhere.”

“I don’t think of it as fucking,” she informed him as he handed her a big box from the cupboard in the hall, and piled a smaller ones on top of it.

“Nor do I,” he replied matter-of-factly, “though I have with everyone else I’ve ever slept with.”

Harriet shuffled from foot to foot, careful not to upset her pile of presents. She didn’t really like thinking of the other girls Robin had been with: she knew, of course, that there had been many. She just preferred to conveniently forget that Robin had done all this so many times before. Her innocence felt an inadequacy.

“Robin, Harriet,” Severus called from the living room, “We’re about to have dinner.”

“Coming, dad,” Robin shouted back. He grinned at Harriet from behind his own armful of brightly-wrapped packages. “All okay now?” he asked.

She nodded with a little smile that didn’t quite manage to cover the fact that she was still nervous.

 

 


	33. Christmas Eve 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I made it! Posting the second half of Christmas eve on the 23rd... cutting it fine!

“Oooh, duck,” Hermione said as Severus levitated it to the table, their soup bowls cleared away. “I love duck.”

“Robin always insists on shooting Christmas Eve dinner,” Severus said dryly. “There aren’t a great many turkeys running wild in the Lake district, so it’s always duck or goose.” He muttered a spell, and the three clustered birds began carving themselves, the meat falling away in perfect slices. Robin tucked Harriet’s hand in his beneath the table.

“Shooting dinner?” Ron asked with a frown. Harriet was a bit surprised too- did that mean Robin hunted? How had she not known that Robin hunted? She tried to imagine him kitted up in a  tweed jacket and a hunting rifle, but the mental image just made her have to suppress a snort of laughter. 

“I hunt,” Robin informed the readhead. “The muggle way, with guns. I have a friend who has an uncle with a good shoot near Kendal. I’ve been hunting since I was twelve.”

“What’re guns?” Ron hissed to Harriet.

“Erm, a muggle weapon,” she said. “It shoots bullets- pellets of metal- at high speed, to kill stuff.”

“Sounds barbaric.” Ron shuddered. “I think I prefer spell slaughter,” he said. 

Robin laughed. “I’m good,” he said. “Not to boast, but I am. It’s quick, just like a spell. It’s no more painful for the animal. And rather more fun for the person doing the hunting.”

“Fun?” Ron echoed blankly. 

“Yeah. It’s about being outside, away from all the people, thinking like the animal… it’s relaxing. And it feels like an achievement, when you bring in plenty of game.”

Ron still looked slightly shocked, but Hermione didn’t give him the chance to say anything. “Do you just shoot duck?” she asked.

Robin spooned some stuffing onto his plate. “No. It is mostly duck, but goose and pheasant too, and venison. I’ve brought down two wild boar.”

“An’ a rogue centaur,” Hagrid pointed out.

Robin wrinkled his nose. “I prefer not to think about that one,” he said. “That wasn’t for sport. It was just horrible.”

Ron, Hermione and Harriet couldn’t let that one go. “You shot a  _ centaur? _ ” Harriet asked incredulously.

It was Hagrid who answered. “Aye, he did, four year back. Poor creature was suffering moon sickness- worst I’ve ever known. They lose all sense of themselves, go wild. This one… Larrent, he was called, he started killing off others in the herd, quiet like, at least at first. Then when the madness really took hold… well, no one could get near him without risk of death. Robin took him down clean like, just one shot. He didn’t feel it… and it probably saved the rest of the herd.”

“It was still awful,” Robin said. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

“Pass the roast potatoes please, Ronald,” Severus requested, his use of Ron’s first name sounding alien from his lips, probably made stranger by the fact that he used the full form. Usually it was only Hermione who used it, and only when Ron was being particularly idiotic. 

“You okay?” Harriet asked Robin under her breath as she passed the dish of carrots. Severus had laid on a full Christmas dinner to rival the one that would be served in the great hall tomorrow, down to the tiny sausages wrapped in streaky bacon.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Robin assured her with a smile, tipping his head down to be close to hers. “It doesn’t bother you, does it, that I hunt?”

Harriet shrugged. “I’m kind of surprised,” she admitted. “But I don’t have a problem with it. I’m willing to eat meat: I know it comes from somewhere.” She accepted the plate of duck from Ron: whatever spell Severus had used, it was quite spectacular, and she imagined that Mrs. Weasley would appreciate knowing it. The meat was perfectly cut into neat slices, and the bones had vanished somewhere. Hagrid had most of a bird to himself, his plate piled into a veritable mountain of food which he ate with some gusto. 

The meal was good; Harriet was reasonably sure that Severus had been the one cooking, and not the house elves. The preparations of potions and food were not so very different, he’d pointed out to her once- at the lower levels of achievement, one only needed to be able to follow instructions well, and at the higher, you needed creativity, flair and an innate understanding of the way your ingredients would work together.

Ron had turned himself towards Hagrid, but both were quiet, concentrating on their plates of food. Hermione and Severus, though, seemed to be in animated conversation, about books, of course.

“Oh, I’d simply love to get my hands on a copy of that!” Hermione gushed. “But it’s been so hard to get: they published such a small run… And it’s beyond the scope of the library, of course.”

“You are welcome to borrow mine,” Severus replied solicitously. “I believe that the second volume may be in storage, but I’m reasonably certain that I can look out the first for you when we have finished our dinner.”

Harriet turned to Robin instead, realising that she would be completely out of her depth in whatever Severus and Hermione were wont to discuss. “So,” she asked, “fire crabs when you were five?”

Robin grinned. “Yeah. I can’t really remember much about it: probably a good thing because I do remember my hands hurting quite a bit from the burns. I reckon i’d have been safer with a puffskein. Hagrid… didn’t seem to have much concept of the age-appropriateness of creatures.”

“He still doesn’t,” Harriet confided. “Have you ever met the Blast Ended Skrewts?”

Robin’s black eyes widened. “No, and I think it’s probably best I don’t, with a name like that!”

Their conversation was cut short when Severus, without taking his eyes from his plate, said warningly, “Ronald, if you feed the cat from the table, I shall cut out your heart with a spoon.”

Everyone else fixed their gaze on Ron, of course, who guiltily pulled his hand back up from his side, popping a morsel of meat into his mouth. A disappointed Sheba slunk out from under the table.“A… a spoon?” Ron asked, puzzled and not a little scared. “Why?”

Hermione’s shoulders were shaking in silent laughter. “Because it’s dull.” Severus said, his face deadpan.

“It’ll hurt more, you twit” Robin chimed in with a chuckle. 

Harriet, Hagrid and Ron looked at each other in bewilderment, Ron eyeing Severus’ spoon with no little consternation. “It’s okay,” Hermione said when she’d caught her breath. “It’s a line from a film,  _ Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves _ . He won’t really take out your heart, Ron.”

“It’s tempting,” Severus said. “I’m sure I can find uses for a human heart in some potion or other…”

Ron visibly blanched. “Don’ worry, Ron,” Hagrid assured the readhead, though he was grinning too, his mouth a curve of red beneath his bushy beard. “Th’ Professor’s just teasin’, like.”

“I have a very dark sense of humour,” Severus admitted, going back to his dinner. “I’m reasonably certain that removing your heart with a spoon would be rather more effort than it’s worth. Do refrain from feeding Sheba from your plate, nevertheless. She doesn’t hunt if she’s overfed, and mice are truly terrible creatures to have around potions ingredients.”

Ron nervously went back to his own dinner. Harriet smiled when Robin stroked her palm with his thumb, using only his fork to feed himself, leaving a hand free to pet her.

He was… careful with her that evening. Careful was the best word Harriet could think to describe it. Solicitous, perhaps. Her glass was always full at the dinner table,and he made sure she’d had as much as she wanted to eat. It was the little touches she appreciated most: whilst he spoke easily to the others around the table, he often held her hand under the cover of the tablecloth. He and Hermione got on well enough, but Ron apparently couldn’t help an occasional little sneer when Robin spoke. As soon as it became apparent that Robin didn’t play quidditch, nor know enough of the game to support a team, their topics of shared conversation dwindled to near nothing. No matter how much Harriet feared that she had little to talk about with Robin, at least they found things. It hadn’t really occurred to her just how insular Ron’s interests had become. If they hadn’t been friends for so long, would they have any topics in common, she wondered?

Once they were all thoroughly stuffed, and starting to feel sleepy, Severus banished the dishes, waving away Hermione’s offers to help clear away. “There’s no need,” he said. “You are a guest, it is your job only to enjoy the hospitality on offer. Perhaps, instead, we should retire to more comfortable seating? Hermione, perhaps you’d like to come and see if we can find that book for you?”

“Ooh, yes,” Hermione said, leaping to her feet, post-meal lethargy all but forgotten.

Severus rose rather more sedately. “Very well. Come, I believe it’s in my study.” Harriet hadn’t even realised he had a study- the books lining the far wall of the living room seemed more than enough.

“Well, just us lot, then,” Hagrid said, rising out of his chair with a groan (from both the gamekeeper and the chair) in order to relocate to the sofa he’d inhabited before. “Now, I can’t give Hermione her present, since she’s off gallivantin’ with the Professor, but you two, you should find somethin’ under the tree for you. Couldn’t give Robin’s to the house elves, like, which is why he got his earlier. Most of ‘em don’t know he exists.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably when Harriet jumped up to fetch the presents from under the tree. It was easy to tell the ones Hagrid had sent- they looked like they’d been slightly chewed by Fang, and quite possibly wrapped by the dog too. She pulled the present she’d bought for Hagrid out of the pile too- a funny little picture of a dragon that reminded her strongly of Norbert (or Norberta- Harriet had realised that, oddly, she had some similarity with the dragon). She tossed one of Hagrid’s packages to Ron and left the other on the table for Hermione. Robin had the slightly bigger package Hagrid had handed off earlier.

He had only peeled off a little of the crinkled paper when he laughed aloud. “Is this what I think it is, Hagrid?” he asked. 

“Thought you might have grown out of t’other one,” Hagrid said with a grin that split his bearded face.

“Well, yes… I think I was about ten when you gave me that one,” Robin pointed out. He finished unwrapping his gift, which appeared to be a mass of brownish knitting. He held it up for inspection, trying to suppress his giggles.”

“Oh, Merlin, another one?” Severus asked sardonically from the doorway. He ushered a flushed Hermione into the room before him, a thick book cradled to her chest. Harriet just blinked at the contents of Robin’s present, trying to make sense of it. Some kind of…. garment? The sleeves were wide and droopy, and there was an inexplicable large red splodge knitted in. Harriet squinted at the brown mass, unsure. 

“Erm… is that… some kind of robin costume?” Ron asked with an grimace.

“Well pyjamas, like,” Hagrid said, his cheeks pink. He rubbed the back of his neck. “On account of him being Robin, like…”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Robin said with mock seriousness, rising to give the gamekeeper a peck on the cheek. “It’s a lovely present. And here is mine to you.”

The elves had somehow managed to ensure that all the  presents between those at the gathering were there. Apparently they knew more about the movements of their charges in the castle than the residents knew themselves, since Harriet and Hermione hadn’t known to expect Hagrid, and yet their gifts to him waited beneath the tree. There was none from Ron, but that at least explained the slightly uncomfortable look on his face. He’d also sent nothing for Severus, whereas Hermione had at least thought to provide a little gift of a couple of fine white handkerchiefs spell-monogrammed with a double ‘S’ in fine black thread. She’d fretted that it wasn’t a very good gift, and wished that she could get something better, but as the invitation had been on such short notice, she hadn’t had time.

Whilst everyone was distracted by their gifts, Robin settled next to Harriet, his arm around her shoulder. Quietly, he placed a little package in her lap. “For me?” she asked.

He nodded. “I hope you like it.”

She slipped her finger beneath the silver wrapping paper to unwrap it. She was left with a little black velvet pouch. Swallowing the lump that was suddenly in her throat, she tipped it up, catching the contents in her hand.

White metal pooled in her palm, cold as water against her skin. Carefully, she picked it up, revealing a silver bracelet. Dangling from one of the links was a tiny silver broomstick. “It’s a charm bracelet,” he explained. “You can add charms to it- there’s all different ones. Sorry, I couldn’t find a racing broom.”

“Thank you,” she said with a little smile. She pushed the sleeve of her cardigan up a little to bare her wrist, fumbling with the unfamiliar clasp. She could see how it was meant to work, but couldn’t recall a time where she’d ever actually used one.

Robin’s fingers were warm when they brushed against her skin, quickly fastening the bracelet on her wrist. His head was close to hers, and he ducked just a little to catch her mouth in a soft, chaste kiss. “Merry Christmas, Harriet,” he murmured, so low that she wouldn’t have heard him if he hadn’t been close enough that she could feel the puff of his words on her skin.

Both of them were suddenly aware that everyone else in the room had stopped talking: all eyes were on them. Harriet immediately flushed red. Hagrid sniffled a bit. “Yer Mum’d be delighted t’ see you happy like that, Harriet,” he said, and fished for his handkerchief. “She an’ yer Dad used t’ sit like that, close t’ each other.”

Ron made a funny choked noise that could have been a snort of derision, but his reaction was smothered as Severus quickly stood with enough force to knock his armchair back a few inches, the clatter on the stones loud. “Tea, anyone, or coffee?” he asked with forced joviality, and the subject was dropped. 

It wasn’t long after that that Hagrid stood and declared that he needed to get going. Robin leaned into Harriet again. “Would you like me to spend the night with you?” he whispered into her ear after tucking a strand of her hair back.

“You’re staying here overnight?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah. I’ll be around until at least tomorrow evening. Nothing exciting going on at home.”

“Then yes, please,” she whispered back, feeling more content than she had in a while. It was easier to forget the troubles of the world when she was with Robin: to put Voldemort and Death Eaters and the strange politics of her wizarding contemporaries aside, even if it was just for an evening. It was easy enough to send Ron and Hermione back to their respective beds quickly, since they were all tired, and the work of a moment to pop back through the floo.

“Forgotten something, Harriet?” Severus asked mildly.

“Yeah. Your son,” she replied. 

“Don’t smirk. It doesn’t become you,” Severus informed her with a small smile. “He’ll be back in a moment, I think.” He rose out of his chair, having set his drink to the side. “May I see your gift?” he asked.

She held out her wrist wordlessly, and he gripped it in his long fingers, examining the bracelet. “You can get magical charms,” he informed her. “Protection spells, tracking spells, I believe I’ve even heard of communication charms being placed in jewelry.”

“Erm, why would I want a tracking spell?” she wanted to know. “I don’t lose things that much…”

“It’s an easy way to track the wearer, not necessarily the bracelet itself,” he replied smoothly, letting her pull her hand back. “It’s still frequently used to keep an eye on children, and sometimes on wives, in case they should fall into trouble, and require assistance.”

“More like so they don’t run off,” Harriet riposted, well able to imagine the ulterior motive. Just a few short months ago, she’d never really thought about the way witches were treated, but now it was all too clear to her. Certainly, a lot had changed since last Christmas. 

“Mmm, “ Severus agreed, returning to his drink. Robin reappeared, with pyjamas (thankfully not avian-themed) and a change of clothes in his arms- he’s had to pop back through the fireplace with clothes in disarray one morning to find his father preparing for the day, and it had been all too clear what he’d been up to. He’d learnt his lesson.

“Goodnight, lovebirds,” Severus said with far more bonhomie than he usually displayed. Perhaps he’d had a little too much wine with dinner; perhaps even he was touched with a semblance of Christmas spirit when it wasn’t shoved in his face in all its bauble-bedecked glory by Albus Dumbledore.

“Night, Dad,” Robin said, the good feeling apparently extending enough to cause him to peck his father on the cheek. Severus was clearly less than impressed, sending them off with an imperious wave of his hand.

As soon as Robin followed her through the fireplace, Harriet reached up to twine her arms around his neck, the links of the bracelet softly clinking, cool against his neck. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him with some passion. There were times she was grateful that he was a squib: he wasn’t exposed to the expectations of the wizarding world. He was unlikely to want to track her through her jewelry, and she appreciated not having to second guess his gift. 

He moaned appreciatively against her lips. “You taste of Christmas pudding,” he mumbled.

“You taste of wine. Nowhere near so nice.”

“Sorry,” he gasped as she tugged the hem of his forest-green shirt from his belt, creeping her hands up the smooth flesh of his back. “Harriet… Kitten… are you, well, healed enough?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” she breathed. She’d endured three more excruciatingly embarrassing trips to Severus so he could reapply the ointment, but it had removed the sharp pain she’d lived with whenever she’d washed herself, or sat on her broom, so she reasoned that the humiliation that came with having to spread her legs was probably worth it. Severus certainly never said or did anything to make her feel that she was a nuisance. She was still relieved when he declared her all healed up a week ago.

Robin sank to his knees in front of her, right there on the hearth rug, his hands questing beneath her skirt. He growled in frustration at her tights being in the way, tugging them impatiently down her legs. She had to brace herself against his shoulders as he pulled them off first one foot, then the other. 

No matter how many times he’d touched her already, she still felt the odd fluttering in her chest when he brushed his fingers against her pussy. She gasped sharply, and he looked up in concern. “No, it’s okay,” she assured him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good,” he replied with a wolfish grin, gently shoving her back onto the sofa and splitting her legs wide with his shoulders. He had to push her skirt well up to her waist , but wasted no time in burying his head between her thighs instead. She scrabbled, grasped a fistful of his hair. She hadn’t known just how much she’d missed this until now.

Perhaps the wizarding hormones were finally catching up to her, she mused absently, as she involuntarily arched her hips up towards him.

  
  



	34. Love is pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, lovely readers, a late Christmas present of the longest Harriet chapter to date, and finally pushing me over 100k words. I've got chapter 35 all written and off in my proofreader's capable hands, so it should be too long in following. I'd hate to leave you all in suspense, after all...

Christmas day was quiet at Hogwarts. There were very few students staying this year: only Harriet, Hermione and Ron, a pair of third years from Gryffindor, and three Ravenclaws. Harriet received her typical Weasley jumper, in pale pink this year, alongside the normal gifts of sweets and broomstick polish and the occasional book from her friends. One gift, however, was firmly shut away in her desk.

She certainly hadn’t expected a present from Malfoy. She hadn’t thought to buy him anything: whilst they were on amicable terms this year, it hadn’t entered her mind. Luckily, she was alone when opening her presents; Ron and Hermione would certainly have made a fuss of the glittering diamond bracelet, necklace and earrings. Harriet couldn’t figure out what she should do with them, so she shut them away in her bottom desk drawer: out of sight, out of mind. Other than that disconcerting discovery in her pile of gifts, the day, and those following, passed peacefully, with the only fly in the ointment being Hermione’s occasional reminders to do yet more work. Even Ron didn’t need much reminding these days, bogged down as he was with extra work to ensure he knew everything possible for his auror testing at the end of April.

Not even the Christmas holiday was excuse enough for Severus to allow Harriet time off from her occlumency lessons, however. “You will find it harder without regular practice,” he insisted, though she was sure he simply hadn’t had enough students to torture of late, and relished the excuse torment her.

Occlumency lessons really weren’t so bad; rationally, she knew this. Long gone were the days of Snape looming over her as he dug out the most painful memories he could find until she ended up on the hard stone floor of his classroom. Now, she would be comfortably ensconced in his sitting room, and there would be a cup of tea and probably cake to follow. The fact, remained, however, that he was still trying to root through her brain. It was never comfortable.

She’d found, though, that memories of Dudley shoving her into a patch of prickly briars, or of Uncle Vernon locking her in the cupboard for the first time when she was four, just weren’t so painful anymore. She was most afraid of him seeing her in a compromising situation with Robin , and he carefully avoided hose memories, immediately moving onto something else as soon as his son made an appearance in her thoughts… and that was when he could get through. Sometime in October, they’d had the first session where she’d completely kept him out, and since then, he times where he broke through were less and less common.

“I have a change of plan for us,” Severus informed her when she presented herself for his lesson, having just lost an epic game of chess to Ron. She groaned and chucked herself onto the sofa. He eyed her harshly. “Do not flop about so, Harriet,” he groused. “Now, where is Robin? He said he’d be here…”

“Robin?” she asked, puzzled. She’d thought he was at home, in Manchester.

“Yes…” Severus said absently, reaching for the floo powder. He threw in a pinch and shoved his head into the harmless green flames.

“Sorry,” Robin said, coming through seconds after Severus had removed his head. “I got distracted.” He kissed Harriet on her forehead as greeting before sprawling across most of the sofa.

“Not that I mind seeing you,” Harriet said, “but what’s going on? Are we having an occlumency lesson or not?”

Severus folded himself down into his chair. “In a way,” he granted. “Harriet, you’re passable at shielding, but your shields look just like that- it’s clear that you are hiding something. You need to be able to convince your attacker that they have unfettered access to your mind. At the moment, you present as a glass wall- the intrusion just slides off.”

“I’m trying, okay?” she snapped.

“I am aware of that,” he replied smoothly, doing his best not to react to her moodiness. “I am also aware that you have nothing to which to compare. You have never practiced legilimency; you have no basis. Now, obviously, I would prefer you not have access to my mind, but short of practicing on a muggle, a squib has a reasonably unprotected mind, with organic thought processes.”

Harriet glanced sideways at Robin, lounging across the sofa. He looked happy enough, she reasoned. Happy enough to have her digging about in his mind, if she even managed. Severus, though, could see the tension in the young man’s shoulders. He had the prior knowledge of Robin’s explosive reaction when Severus had first broached the idea. Robin was (quite understandably) concerned that Harriet would see something that would upset her. He wasn’t happy about having anyone ‘dig through his mind’, he was just doing his best to appear relaxed for Harriet’s sake. Severus internalised a sigh: the boy was far too attached. It would all come to grief, he was sure.

“So,” Harriet said slowly, “You want me to learn legilimency? Using Robin as some kind of test subject?”

“That is the idea,” Severus admitted. “Most magical people have slight protections in place anyway… otherwise life for a natural legilimens would be intolerable. Muggle minds are completely unprotected… and squibs fall somewhere between. If you were to aim to project the sort of images and thoughts you get from Robin, you’d just be considered a poor occlumens, rather than a passable one who can’t hide their shields.

“And… you’re okay with that?” Harriet asked Robin. “ I mean, having someone in your brain… it’s not comfortable.” She knew that that well enough, she groused silently. She’d had Severus in there enough times to be very familiar with the sensation.

He smiled at her. “I’m okay with it,” he said.

“Erm, okay… But I don’t know what to do.”

Severus lazily waved his wand, extinguishing most of the lamps, leaving the room in half- light. “You know the spell. It’s a simple one to perform;the difficult aspect is making sense of what you see. You may just experience colours at first, but they should resolve reasonably quickly, since Robin has too little magical training to ground him.”

Harriet swallowed nervously. It felt wrong to raise her wand to Robin, somehow. Sometimes she could almost forget he was a squib, but this wasn’t one of those times. He’d closed his eyes, but she could see the flutter of his eyelids. He looked… completely defenceless. Swallowing again, she summoned up her courage. “ _Legilimens_ ,” she said as firmly as she could.

She hadn’t expected it to work. New spells rarely worked first time for her. She wasn’t Hermione, after all. The first thing she was aware of was the noise: like a lifetime of sound all at once. Then the swirl of colours: not a rainbow of colours, but a veritable spectrum, all riotously clashing against one another. In panic, she slammed up all her own occlumentic shields, and everything faded. It was only then that she realised that Robin’s face was screwed up, his head in his hands. “God, that hurts,” he ground out.

Severus merely uncorked a potion vial next to him on the table and handed it over. Robin tipped it down without complaint. “Again, Harriet,” Severus said softly when the pinched look on Robin’s face had mostly gone.

“What?” she asked plaintively. “No! I… I hurt him! I’m not doing it again.”

“Again,” Severus pressed. Harriet shook her head.

Robin slipped his hand around hers and squeezed. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I knew it would probably hurt. It’s just one of the things about being a squib- no defences.”

“No,” she repeated. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Robin shook his head sadly. “From what I know, kitten, you being able to do this might be the difference between life and death for you. Don’t you think I’d rather have a little pain now?”

She wavered, but held firm. “I can shield myself. That must be enough.” She looked to Severus for confirmation.

“The Dark Lord is one of the best legilimens there is,” Severus informed her gravely. “Dumbledore is the only wizard I know who can match him. If he knows, or even suspects, that you are shielding, Harriet, he will push harder, and he will break your shields. He will most likely also break your sanity.”

Harriet got up and started to pace around the room. “Why is it always me?” she complained. “It’s always up to me!”

“Life is unfair, I can’t deny that,” Severus agreed shortly. “But no one ever promised me, or you, different. We’ve had this discussion before, Harriet. Now, sit down, and do your duty.”

“Dad,” Robin said warningly before Harriet could snap at Severus. “You’re not exactly helping.” He rose, and stepped in front of Harriet, gripping her upper arms firmly to stop her. “Come on, kitten,” he beseeched softly. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”

“It’s not okay!” she snapped. “It’s not fair. I’m no good at spells first time round, I shouldn’t be practicing on a human!”

“Would you prefer to read the cat’s mind?” Severus drawled, inspecting his fingernails. “I assure you, it’s hardly entertaining.”

She whirled to face him, stabbing her finger at him. “It never hurt like that when you did it to me!” she accused.

Severus didn’t react to her anger, he didn’t even raise his voice or gaze. “You have magical defences. Quite aside from that fact, I am a practiced legilimens. I wa not aiming to cause you pain, so I did not. Finesse is required for legilimency, and finesse, you lack.”

“Then why’d you let me do it?” she demanded, shaking off Robin’s calming hand. “Why’d you let me hurt him? He’s your son, you’re supposed to love him!”

“Harriet,” Robin said warningly.

That outburst, apparently, was enough to make Severus react. He stood, slowly strode across the room. Loomed over the defiant Harriet, looking down at her. She craned her neck up to glare at him stubbornly. “Firstly,” he said, his silky voice low, dangerous, “you cannot begin to understand my feelings towards my son. His very existence has pulled me from the brink of insanity and prevented me from suicide on too many occasions to count.” The light from the remaining candles flickered over his face in a menacing dance, highlighting the shallow cast of his skin, the darkness of the circles around his eyes. His eyes themselves were bottomless, pupil-less in the poor light. “I cannot number the nights I have sat with a bottle of poison before me, only keeping from drinking it because I know that he needs me. Furthermore,” he hissed, “your mastery of this skill may ensure your continued life. If you are successful in the endeavour you have been groomed for these past seven years, you will ensure the lives of so many in our world. I have attempted allowances for you, Miss Potter. I have given due consideration to your sadly lacking upbringing, to your perfectly understandable feelings about your change in gender identity. But we run short on time. Albus Dumbledore will be lucky to live to see next Christmas, and once he is gone, the Dark Lord will undoubtedly strike. We must prepare. We must all prepare. It is why Longbottom spends almost every evening with Albus and Minerva, trying to become what is necessary. It is why I am pouring my magic into keeping Albus alive and functional. It is why Robin is agreeing to do this for you, knowing that it will cause him pain, and that his every thought and memory will be laid bare to your eyes. Given all that, I think you should sit down and try again.”

Through his monologue, Severus’ voice never reached above a silken drawl. Harriet had started pulling into herself, trying to make herself even smaller. She realised with a shot of embarrassment that a tear had escaped her eye, then another, dripping down her cheek. With exquisite gentleness, Severus cupped her face in his hands, brushing away her tears with his thumbs. “Are you ready to try again?” he asked, the hard edge gone from his voice. She sniffled and nodded.

“Good girl,” he soothed. “It is difficult, Harriet… it is very upsetting to hurt those we love for the greater good. But if the Dark Lord attempts to enter your mind and senses that you are hiding something, he will break you. The best course open to us is to make it appear that you have no training. It will lure him to false security.”

She nodded morosely. “I know,” she admitted.

“Yes. You’re not stupid… usually,” Severus granted. “Now, come, have something to drink. The headache remedy should dull the pain for Robin, and it will not be so bad. A little harder for you, because it may muddle his thoughts, but that’s preferable to the pain for him, don’t you agree?” She let him guide her back to the sofa, his arm around her shoulders, and hand her a glass of cold pumpkin juice.

She gulped it gratefully. Robin perched next to her, clearly still worried she may explode in anger. “Is it true?” she asked. “About Neville, and about Dumbledore dying?”

“It is,” Severus told her with an affirmatory inclination of his head.

Harriet sighed deeply. Getting older didn’t make life any easier, she decided. “Ready?” she asked Robin.

“Yeah,” he replied grimly. Even she could see the whiteness of his knuckles this time.

Severus ran a potion-stained hand softly over Robin’s head. “The potion will dull the pain, Robin, but the sensation will still be less than pleasant. I would equate it to having one’s brain stirred with a stick.. Try to focus on a specific memory, it will make it a bit quicker.”

Once more, Harriet cast the spell, her voice wavering just a little. She braced herself for the sudden onslaught of sensory experience. It faded after only a few seconds this time, the sound resolving to a high childish laugh, and the swirling colours to white: white and blue and a flash of black. A snowman, she realised; a young Robin in a blue coat, building a snowman. The black was Severus crouching beside him, then lifting him to shove the carrot-nose firmly on.

Memories change fast. A smiling woman appeared, and then the memory snapped away to a little living room, the woman lying sprawled across the sofa, and a teenaged Robin desperately shaking her. Harriet could feel Robin’s distress at the memory, felt the pull as he dragged it away from her.

Instead, she saw herself, her hair too long and unruly, dressed in baggy, too large boy’s clothes, just as he’d first seen her. At least she thought it was her- even though she looked drowned in her clothes and utterly bewildered, she was beautiful in this memory, not quite the Harriet she saw in the mirror. Her eyes were brighter, her skin smoother, and it almost seemed to glow.

Other snippets of her flashed past, too fast for her to figure out when they had occurred. Some seemed to have an odd fuzzy quality to them, only partly formed. At first, she wondered if he was tired or distracted when the events had happened, until she got a good enough look at one. It was her, again, but certainly not her as she’d ever been. Her, wearing a long white dress. She realised with a start that it was a wedding dress. It wasn’t a memory, it was a product of his imagination.

She tried to break free of the endless stream, pulling back, but she realised Severus hadn’t told her how to stop. She tried the same as last time, raising her own protections, but it didn’t work.

It was a daydream memory that finally jolted her enough to escape. Her, again, or at least she thought it was her. A dark-haired girl, thrown across Robin’s knee, face down. Her skin was pale… well, most of it was. Her bottom was blushing pink. She could do nothing but watch as he smacked it. It was that moment of panic that lent enough clarity of thought to let her cry out “ _f_ _i_ _nite incantatem!”_

The first real thing she was aware of was Robin swearing. “Fuck, Harriet, I’m sorry. I never meant for you to see that.”

She shook her head in confusion, trying to make sense of it. “I… I think I should go,” she muttered, springing up to fumble for the floo powder pot.

“What did you see?” Severus asked. His brows were drawn down close to each other.

She didn’t answer, but Robin did. “Everything,” he said morosely. Harriet managed to get the jar open and flung the powder into the fire and demanded it take her to her own room.

She crawled onto her bed, curling up against the pillows in a tight ball. She couldn’t make sense of the images she’d seen. Had that been her, draped across his lap like that without a stitch on? Maybe it was another girl, one who looked like her? But even so… if he had hit that girl, would he hit her? And the girl in the wedding dress had certainly been her. both images had been strange, fuzzy, almost. They were almost snapshots, with little background, where the clear memories had been filled out, with furniture and weather and glimpses of emotion. She realised the fuzzy ones had been silent, too.

She watched with almost disinterested eyes as her fire emitted Robin from it’s greenish glow. She’d sort of expected it. “Harriet…” he began softly.

“Was that me?” she asked, cutting him off.

He looked utterly deflated. “Yes,” he said. “Harriet, I never meant for you to see…” She ignored him, rolling over to face the wall, pulling a pillow tighter into her. “Kitten…” he pleaded, but she ignored him. He let out a long puff of air, and she heard him go back through the fire.

She was alone with her thoughts for another few minutes. “Leave me alone, Robin,” she cried when she heard the crackling flare of an incoming floo again.

“Did you know,” Severus asked quietly, “that it is painful for Robin to use the floo?”

She clutched her pillow. She wanted to ignore him, but she couldn’t pass up that opening. “What?” she asked grumpily.

“Floo powder prevents a fire from burning the traveller, but it does not prevent a flame being hot.” The edge of the bed sank as Severus sat on it. “Most wizards and witches create a cooling spell instinctively, without being taught. The few that can’t… they learn fast. Robin, however… he does not, even though he has some magical power, and it is basic and instinctual magic. I don’t know why, but he feels a momentary burn each time, although it leaves no injury. You will never find Robin making a floo call- the pain is too much to stand for more than the few seconds it takes to travel.”

Harriet pulled herself up to a sitting position, hugging her knees to her chest. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “To make me feel guilty because he comes through the floo to see me?”

“No,” Severus replied. “I am explaining this to you to remind you that he is not like you. He is not like me. There are many instances where he cannot interact with our world as we are able to do.”

Harriet picked at a thread on her scarlet quilt. “I know,” she said.

“Do you really?” asked Severus softly. “He had no power over what he was showing you, Harriet. I admit, I had not expected you to manage legilimency so well, considering the problems you have had with occlumency. What you saw, Harriet, he didn’t want you to see.”

“And you know what I saw, did you?” she groused.

“He tried to show you a memory from his childhood, a harmless, happy one of building a snowman, but became distracted. He was unable to control the flow of memory- your will took hold. I believe you witnessed the death of his mother, some memories of yourself, and some fantasies of his. But, Harriet, I stress that he had no control over this. It was your magic that drew his thoughts out.”

“So what, you’re saying it’s my fault?” she questioned sharply.

“There is no fault to give,” Severus corrected. “it is not fault, just a fact of life. Won’t you at least speak to him?”

She bit her lip and stared down at her socked feet. “Harriet?” Severus asked with a sigh. He was waiting for an answer, and Severus wasn’t the type to go without an answer he demanded. He was being nice Severus now, but she knew he could turn to scary Snape in a heartbeat if he wanted, and she just didn’t have the energy anymore. He was right, legilimency was hard.

“Fine,” she replied flatly. “I’ll come and speak to him.”

“Good,” Severus said crisply. He rose from the side of her bed and solicitously held out his arm for her to steady herself on as she got up. She ignored it, feeling that she was entitled to some churlishness, but her intentions came to nothing- she tangled her foot in the bedspread and would have landed on the ground if he hadn’t steadied her. “You will find Robin in his bedroom, I believe,” he continued, as if nothing had happened. “I shall be in my laboratory, should you require my assistance.”

True to his word, he vanished into his lab, shutting the door firmly behind him. Harriet dithered in the doorway to Robin’s room, finally pushing the door ajar so she could peer in.

He was slumped on the cushions in front of the hearth, staring into the fire. She wanted nothing so much as to turn and run away, but all that would result in was Severus dragging her back again, most likely. But what should she say? Hey, Robin, why’d you have my wedding dress all picked out when we’ve been together less than six months? Never mind the… other thing.

She might have stood there for most of the night if the door hadn’t given her away, creaking ominously for no apparent reason. Sometimes, the castle seemed to have it’s own ideas about what one should do; it just usually expressed them in moving staircases. Creaking doors, Harriet hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was just a dungeon draft.

Robin looked round, his face even paler than usual. “Harriet?” he asked quietly, rising gracefully to his feet to face her. Sheba turned her green eyes on Harriet too, giving her the kind of dirty look only a cat could.

“Hey,” Harriet replied, her voice catching. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Can we talk about it?” Robin asked hesitantly. He gestured to the fluffy cushions at his feet. She dragged her leaden feet across the floor to sink down onto them, not quite able to meet his over-bright eyes. She tried to tempt Sheba to curl up on her lap instead, woefully unsuccessfully.

At length, Robin said, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” she replied.

“I thought… I thought that I’d be able to keep you where I wanted you. I just wanted to show you something nice, the snowman thing, but it all seemed so much more _real_. Seeing my mum again, in that memory… it just set off the thought of her dead, and then I just couldn’t control it.”

“I thought you never wanted to hurt me,” she said, her voice cracking  and rising in pitch. She sounded whiny, she thought absently.

“I don’t!” he exclaimed. “Why would you think… oh.” He fell silent. “Dad said that sometimes fantasies, daydreams, can appear as memories. It’s not that I want to hurt you. I love you, I’d never want to hurt you…”

She cut him off. “You were hitting me!” she pointed out in heated tones. “How is that not hurting me?”

He sighed and flopped his head forwards to rest on his arms, crossed over his knees. “Have you ever heard of something called BDSM?” he asked, his voice muffled.

“No,” she said stiffly. “What is it?”

“It’s… it’s kind of a sexual game. It’s kinky. ” He turned his head so he could see her, gauge her reactions. “Erm, it kind of stands for a few different things- bondage, dominance, submission, sadism, masochism..” He didn’t seem encouraged by her scowl. “Look, some people get really into it, it’s a whole culture. But… well… I had a girlfriend once who liked to be tied up, spanked. Nothing too serious, nothing that causes any injury, just a bit of a red bum. I enjoyed doing it. I… I want to do everything with you.” He fell silent for a moment, as if waiting for a response, but it was a response she refused to give. “Harriet… kitten… it’s not something I’d ever do without your consent. Just because my over-sexed brain came up with it doesn’t mean I’m necessarily going to do it.”

“And the wedding dress?”

“I did say I wanted to do everything with you. I’m not… I’m not asking you to marry me. Not now, not yet. I think my dad would probably have some rather choice insults for me if I did. But… I can still hope, can’t I?” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Could we just… pretend it hasn’t happened?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Harriet said slowly. All she could think of was Severus telling her that Narcissa Malfoy was drugged, and remembering Hermione telling her about married witches being essentially nothing but property. But then… she’d looked so beautiful in his memories… Surely, she must mean more to him than property?

Robin flopped his head back down, hiding his face from her. “I’m sorry, Robin,” she whispered. “I… I just need time to think about it. I care about you, very much, but, well, it’s kind of a lot to take in. Just give me some time.”

He didn’t respond. They sat in silence.


	35. In the library

Harriet leaned against the shelving behind her with a sigh as Hermione vanished into the depths of the restricted section. “So,” Hermione’s voice floated from the depths of the stacks, “why aren’t you with your lovely friend tonight? Doesn’t he normally visit on a Wednesday?”

“We kind of had a fight,” Harriet explained, blindly smoothing her fingers along the soft leather spines of the books behind her. “I don’t know if he’ll be here or not.” She wasn't sure if she wanted him to come or not, to be honest.

Hermione’s bushy head peered around the corner of the shelves. She was higher than normal, perched on a library step-stool to reach the upper shelves. “Oh no!” she cried. “What about? He seemed really decent. I liked him.”

“Just… stuff,” Harriet hedged, scuffing her toes along the floor and pretending to be very interested in the books in front of her. “You know.” She pulled a book of the shelf, dislodging a puff of dust. The library house elf must be scared of the restricted section, she mused, and Madam Pince must have been behind with her feather duster. _Potyns to Kyll_ read the title, and she put it back hastily when Hermione vanished again. This section had always sent shivers down her spine, ever since that screaming book...

“I hope Ron didn’t have anything to do with it,” Hermione groused. “I know he’s done nothing but go on about what an idiot Robin is, but he’s just jealous about him taking up your time, and actually being nice. Ron can’t come to terms with the fact that he’s been shown up as a prat, and Robin’s actually a gentleman.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harriet replied distractedly. Another book had caught her eye, up on the top shelf. She stood on tiptoes and reached as high as she could, but she was still inches off. She hadn’t been tall as a boy: as a girl, she had no hope of reaching it. She nibbled her lip: if she used a spell to bring it down, Hermione would most likely hear, and she’d want to know what Harriet had found. Harriet most definitely did not want her friend to ask why she was interested in _Magical sexuality_ , and Hermione would be even more concerned about any interest in the slender book next to it, _BDSM and Magical Practice._ She’d have to come back later, alone. She quickly looked away from the high shelf as Hermione rounded the corner, her own finds weighing down her arms.

“I’m so pleased that Madam Pince gave me access to the restricted section,” she said. “There’s just so much in here that’s fascinating. I could read all year and still want more time. Of course, now I can use books from Seve… I mean Professor Snape...” Hermione’s cheeks went bright pink, and she ducked her head.

“He’s nicer than he pretends to be,” Harriet said, trying to maintain a semblance of seriousness. She could see why Hermione was embarrassed to be found referring to the black bat of the dungeons with such familiarity, but the blush did seem excessive. If it had been Ron, perhaps… But then, Hermione was odd sometimes.

“Come on,” Hermione said. “It’s not long ‘til curfew, and I need to do rounds.”

The castle was dark and silent when the portrait-door to Harriet’s room swung open to emit… no one. The invisibility cloak-clad Harriet pushed it closed behind her as quietly as she could. She had an appointment with the restricted section, and meeting a teacher in the corridors (Merlin forbid she was caught by Severus!) would delay that somewhat.

The moonlight slanted into the entrance hall, silver arrows of light that all seemed to point directly at Harriet, smothered under the confines of the water-silky cloak. She froze as Mrs. Norris stalked through, her tail snapping after her as she entered the great hall with a plaintive mew, no doubt hunting for Filch. Funny, Harriet thought, that both Filch and Robin loved cats. Sheba, she’d learned, had been Robin’s cat, but he couldn’t find any student housing where he could keep the cat, so she lived with Severus. The latter appreciated a mouser, in any case.

She did feel a little guilty. She’d spent the evening in Gryffindor tower with Hermione and Ron, doing some homework and pratting about with Ron and Seamus when they’d decided to try conjuring fireworks to chase the first years about. When she’d finally returned to her room, via the library with Hermione, there had been a little bunch of daisies on her bed. Though there was no note with them, it was obvious who’d left them. Robin had come after all, but she’d been too embarrassed to go through to Severus’ to see if he was still there. The Marauder’s map, she’d discovered, didn't show teacher's private rooms. Oh well. She was really off on this midnight jaunt for him, she reasoned with herself. After all, it was him who was interested in all this… stuff.

She tiptoed past the door to Hermione’s room, feeling even more vulnerable so near her friend. Only a little further, and she’d be in the library.

Her breath caught when she noticed a dull glow from somewhere in the vicinity of the arithmancy books. Someone else was here! Whoever it was, they were on the other side of the library though… and also out after curfew. They couldn’t turn her in without revealing themselves. She dithered in the doorway. She could go back to her room and try again later, or tomorrow… but she was tired, and also impatient to find out about the contents of those books. She had the cloak, so they wouldn’t see her… She retreated a few steps into the corridor so whoever it was wouldn’t hear her casting a muffling spell on her feet. Now they wouldn’t be able to hear her either. As long as neither of the books screamed… She shook her head, feeling silly. She’d learnt in her trips into the restricted section with Hermione this year that screaming books were relatively rare, and in any case, she certainly wasn’t planning on opening them here. No, she’d just take them back to her room, where they would be able to scream to their little paper-and-ink heart’s content. Almost holding her breath, she carefully crept over to the restricted section. She very delicately stepped over the rope denoting the start of the restricted books. She’d sometimes wondered why on earth there weren’t better protections for this section: true, it was right beside Madam Pince’s desk, but it hadn’t stopped miscreants such as her wandering in at night, not even in first year.

She’d even practiced her wordless summoning spells in advance, wanting to make as little noise as possible. The first book thumped gently into her hand, although it sounded unnaturally loud to her ears.

The faint lamplight of the other occupant had been enough for Harriet to see by: she certainly hadn’t wanted to risk a _lumos_ in the circumstances. But just as she summoned the second book, the light was killed abruptly. Harriet almost gasped, stifling the sound just in time, but she also jumped, causing _BDSM and Magical Practice_ to tumble to the floor with a clatter. She flattened herself back against the shelving, hoping against hope that the light had gone because her night-time wandering companion had gone, or if not, that they’d presume the book had been carelessly replaced and fallen on it’s own. She held her breath and heard footsteps approach. Very slowly, silently, she started to back away down the shelving, trying to distance herself from the book. She couldn’t be seen in the cloak, but if whoever it was brushed against her, they’d know…

A streak of moonlight turned Draco’s platinum hair to molten silver. He unhooked the rope, not cautious of noise as she had been. Kneeling, he picked up the book. His head was dipped, so she couldn’t see his expression as he read the title, but when he looked up, his face showed no surprise or disgust. His grey eyes were clear and level as they swept side to side before him. She took a breath as shallow and silent as she could manage, her lungs screaming for air. Never mind her breathing, surely he could hear her heart pounding furiously.

She only saw it when he reached for it. Her wand. She must have dropped it when she jumped. Draco lit his own wand, examining the shaft in his fingers, turning it over. “Well, well, Harriet,” he said quietly. “I would never have guessed that this was a proclivity of yours.”

How did he know? Her ears pounded to the sound of her own heartbeat. He had her exit blocked, and even if he didn’t he had her wand. He stood with fluid grace and strode forward, one hand before him, grasping. She backed away, stumbled, fell. The cloak fluttered enough for his to catch a glimpse of her hands, out to try to catch her from her fall, and he twitched the cloak off her, lying prone on the floor. “Give me my wand, Malfoy!” she snapped, trying to scramble to her feet. He surprised her by offering it hilt-first, then holding out his hand to help her. She snatched her wand and ignored his hand.

He sighed dramatically and held out the book instead. “Yours, I believe?” he asked.

“How did you know it was me?” Harriet demanded, bundling her cloak in her arms.

“I know what your wand looks like,” he explained. “That, and who else around here has an invisibility cloak?”

She scowled at him as she slipped her wand back into her pocket. “What were you doing here so late?”

“Studying. Unlike you, the rest of us have to put up with dormitories. You try thinking when Blaise is snoring like a thunderstorm.”

“You’re supposed to be a wizard,” she snapped. “Use a silencing charm, don’t go about scaring the living daylights out of the rest of us!”

Draco raised a barely-there eyebrow. “Quite the little firecracker tonight, Harriet,” he said smoothly. “I like a spirited witch. Especially if these-” he gestured to the books in her arms, “are the kind of games you prefer. Spirit makes that kind of thing much more fun.” he reached out a ghostly pale hand to stroke her cheek, but she flinched away. “Oh, Harriet,” he said with a sigh. “Can’t you tell that I would be good to you? Why do you keep resisting?”

Harriet’s brain was whirring in overdrive. Robin, her mind screamed. But another part wondered what if would be like to be with Draco. To have someone who was _there_. Who she could meet in a dark corner of the library, or behind a suit of armour for a quick snog. Draco must have seen the panicked indecision in her face, because he reached out again, cupping her cheek with smooth, dry fingers. “Did you like my Christmas present, sweet one?” he asked quietly. “Of course, it could not be as beautiful as you.”

Harriet tore away from Draco’s touch with a gasp, dashing past him into the library proper. She clutched her cloak and books to her as she fled, her legs pumping and feet clattering on the stone, the silencing spell broken in her fall. She heard Draco calling after her as loud as he dared, but she skittered down the stairs two at a time, darting back over the entrance hall and down the corridor to her room. Was Draco following her? She didn’t care anymore. She had no idea how she hadn’t been caught on her mad dash through the castle. She slammed the portrait closed behind her, gasping in great lungfuls of burning air. She leaned her head against the cool wall, books and cloak landing on the floor with a thump. Why had she run from Draco? He wasn’t hurting her, wasn’t threatening her… but he wasn’t Robin. Tall, gentle, reassuring Robin.

She didn’t even put the cloak and books away before she stepped through the floo into Severus’ dim quarters and crept down the hall to Robin’s bedroom. She pushed the door ajar and sighed in relief when she made out the solid lump under the blankets. He was here! She clambered up onto the high bed, carefully peeling back the covers to slip in beside him. Robin sat up suddenly, clapping his hands and causing the candles to light. “Harriet?” he asked blearily, rubbing his eyes. She pressed herself as close to him as she could, sighing in relief as he wrapped an arm around her. “Harriet, what’s wrong?” he asked. “Your heart’s going fit to burst.” He stroked her hair soothingly. “I thought you didn’t want to see me tonight… you weren’t in your room.”

“But you’re still here?” she whispered.

“Yeah, kitten, I’m still here,” he agreed, his voice husky, with emotion or sleep she couldn’t decide. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head minutely, enough for him to feel, as close together as they were. He sighed. “Fine. Are you staying? Because if you are, would you mind losing the jeans? They feel all rough and wrong in bed.”

She managed to shuck the offending clothing without leaving the warmth of the blankets and reached behind her to unclasp her bra, pulling it out without removing her top, a trick Hermione had taught her. The head girl had some uses, it couldn’t be denied. She dumped her clothes in an unceremonious heap on the floor before snuggling in as close as she could to him in her t shirt and knickers. She tucked her head onto his chest, listening to his heart and trying to slow her own heartbeat to match his, consciously relaxing and breathing more slowly. He clapped again, extinguishing the candles, and wrapped his arms around her, shushing softly to try to soothe her.

“How do you do that?” she asked. “The clapping thing, I mean.”

“Dad set it up,” he told her. “It’s a muggle idea, having lights that turn on or off when you clap. There’s some kind of charm in here to let me do it with the candles.”

“Oh,” she said, and subsided into silence, content to be close to him.

Robin stroked her arm absently. “Kitten… does this mean we’re okay?” he asked softly. “I mean… you were pretty freaked out.”

“We’re okay… for now,” she said, feeling sleepy in the warmth of his bed. She yawned. “I still haven’t decided how I feel about… stuff.”

“That’s fine,” he assured her, and she enjoyed the reverberation of his voice in his chest. “You don’t have to decide anything if you don’t want to. We’ll never do anything unless both of us are comfortable with it, kitten. I hope you know that.”

“Mmm,” she agreed absently, the excitement of the last half hour catching up with her. She was asleep a few moments later, though Robin lay awake for a while, contemplating the girl in his arms. If any other girl had freaked on him like she had, had run away and refused to say one way or the other how she felt about him, had failed to show up for a long standing arrangement with no explanation or apology, he certainly wouldn’t be holding her close and feeling relief that she’d come back. He never would have let any other girl into his head. He’d always been sure enough of female companionship that he could afford not to put up with ridiculous demands or silly pettiness, though he always tried to be a decent human being. What was so different about Harriet? What was it that made him want her so much it hurt from the first moment he saw her in her greying and oversized boys clothes? It had been like he was under a love spell from those first moments, and he’d had to squash every instinct, and try to act normally. He’d been with at least one other witch in his life, so it wasn’t just her magic drawing him to her, or he’d have felt it before. Lauren hadn’t known he was aware that she was magical, of course, but when he caught sight of her wand, he knew exactly what she was. He suspected she was muggle-born, as she’d moved through the muggle world with utter ease.

He finally fell into fitful slumber considering the questions, his dreams haunted by what seemed to be every girl he’d ever taken to his bed.


	36. Extracurricular research

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've shamelessly lifted most of the spells in this chapter from other fics, mostly from the wonderful LadyoftheMasque's 'For Someone Special'. If you haven't read it, and like a hefty dose of BDSM in your fanfic, I heartily recommend it.

_ Magic and sexuality have long been intricately knotted together. It is common knowledge, of course, and unavoidable fact, that magical children come into sexual maturity earlier than their muggle counterparts, and spend their teenaged years in hormone-charged lust.  _

Harriet stroked the end of her quill against her cheek absently. She’d disguised the spoils of her midnight trek to the library as defence textbooks, and she hadn’t been able to resist bringing them to a study session with her friends. The fact that Malfoy had also shown up had almost put her off reading them, but tucked in the corner of the library as she was, no one else could see the words she read. She was carefully ignoring Malfoy’s knowing glances. 

 

_ It is also a known fact that most wizards and witches enjoy a higher libido than muggles. Therefore, it is perhaps to be expected that what the non-magical population considers deviant sexuality is far more common in the wizarding world. Many of these practices fall under the umbrella of what has come to be known as BDSM. This label spans many activities, from casual bedroom games through to major lifestyle decisions, and is increasingly also used to cover the marital dynamic traditional to purebloods, where a husband takes on a head of household role, managing the behaviour and discipline of not only his children and servants but also his wife. _

 

Harriet glanced at Draco beneath her eyebrows. Was drugging your wife considered a form of discipline? She’d felt sorry for Draco, having such a bizarre familial situation, but then, perhaps it was normal for him. Maybe that was what he’d do with his wife if he felt it necessary. 

He must have felt his gaze on her, because he looked up, straight at her, and gave a knowing smirk. She quickly returned her gaze to her book, skipping over the rest of the introduction and flipping the page to the table of contents. 

 

_ Chapter one: The psychology behind BDSM _

_ Chapter two: Spanking: by hand or by wand? _

_ Chapter three: Bondage: rope and magical alternatives _

_ Chapter four: Creative discipline _

_ Chapter five: Preparing for sodomy _

 

“Harriet, why are you blushing?” Ron asked suddenly, quite distracted from his Transfiguration essay. 

“Wha… what d’you mean?” Harriet stammered.

“Ron’s right… you’re all red,” Hermione agreed, peering at her friend. 

Draco gave a languorous shrug. “Who among us can know the filthy contents of our Miss Potter’s mind?” he drawled, smirking at Harriet. His words didn’t help the reddening of her cheeks, and she quickly picked up her charms textbook instead. The words didn’t penetrate her brain, though. She had quite different thoughts on her mind. 

She knew what sodomy was. She’d spent most of her life thinking she was a gay male, after all. She’d considered the notion of anal sex, but it had always been abstract, like someday she might do it. She’d never quite been able to imagine any of her various love interests actually doing it… not Cedric Diggory or Oliver Wood, even though she’d tried. But now… perhaps it was because she’d actually had sex. The thought of doing something so… forbidden with Robin made her breath catch in her throat, and she wasn’t sure if it was in terror or anticipation. She shook her head a little at her silliness. What was to say that Robin would even want to do something like that? It was a gay thing, wasn’t it?

“Earth to Harriet!” Hermione said, waving her hand in front of Harriet’s face. 

Harriet jerked in surprise. “What?” she asked vacantly. 

“Well, I was asking if you were coming to the common room, but you’re clearly not hearing anything right now. What is wrong with you tonight?”

“Erm, just a bit tired. Think I’ll stay here and finish up some work,” Harriet replied.

Ron snorted. “Ah, it’s Thursday, and we all know what Harriet does Wednesday night!”

Harriet kicked him under the table, glancing in the direction of Draco, and of Luna, who had joined them too. She needn't have bothered: Madam Pince appeared from around the shelving to smartly tap Ron on the head with a book. “Be quiet, or leave,” she informed the group with a hiss. 

“I’m going, I’m going…” Ron protested, rubbing his head whilst gathering his parchment with the other hand. Hermione stifled a giggle, and everyone but Harriet and Draco gathered up their work and left. She was wishing she’d gone with them now: she didn’t much fancy the jollity of the common room, but now she was here, alone with Draco… and she knew it would look odd if she left now, having just said she had work to do. She bent her head over her Charms work.

For a while, they scribbled in silence. Predictably, it was Draco who spoke first: Harriet was wishing she was somewhere, almost anywhere, else. “I apologise if I startled you unduly yesterday,” Draco said quietly, after a glace about to make sure that the librarian was nowhere in sight. Harriet made a noncommittal noise. Draco was undeterred. “So,” he continued in a conversational tone (or as conversational as one could make a library-suitable whisper), “what are your Wednesday evening activities?”

Harriet’s heart seized. Damn Ron and his big mouth! “Defense club,” she muttered back shortly, not looking up.

She could hear Draco’s grin anyway when he spoke. “I can’t imagine defence club tires you so very much,” he said. “Do you always take a nocturnal ramble on a Wednesday night?”

“Do you always break curfew?” Harriet riposted sharply. 

Draco shrugged, seemingly not in the least put out by her question. “Sometimes,” he replied. “Tell me, who is it you’re sleeping with? I can’t get so much as a whisper from the gossips, and I’m quite dying of curiosity. I simply must know who it is that makes you so unwilling to take me up on my offer.”

“I’m not sleeping with anyone, Malfoy!” Harriet hissed, slamming her book shut. A loud throat-clearing came from the direction of the librarian’s desk. 

Draco leaned back in his chair, eyeing her speculatively. She glared back at him, not entirely sure why she was still here. “You haven’t called me Malfoy in weeks,” Draco noted. “Months, perhaps. Something has you all het up.”

Suddenly, he was out of his chair, standing over her. For all that she was on her feet now, and all the lamps were lit, it felt like last night, when he’d had her captive in the restricted section. She held her breath, trembling. Why was she still here? her rational mind demanded to know. She could just walk off… Draco slipped a cool hand beneath the heavy braided rope of her hair, gripping the back of her neck lightly. “You need it, Harriet,” he breathed into her ear. “You need a wizard. I can feel it coming off you in waves, my pet. I can feel your desire.” 

“Let me go,” she hissed. “I’m not ‘your’ anything.”

The hand was gone, and he stepped back, giving her room to breathe. “As you wish, princess,” he acquiesced silkily. “But you know where to find me.”

“In your dreams,” she riposted, clutching her books tightly to her chest. 

She heard a slight chuckle from Draco as she fled back to her room. 

She flung her books onto her laden table. What had Draco meant, that he could ‘feel it coming off her in waves’? Tired, she curled up in her armchair, a wave of her wand sending the kettle to heat over the fire. Could Draco tell when she was, well, aroused? She’d found herself with her hands buried firmly between her thighs almost every night for weeks now. She and Robin hadn’t had much opportunity for sex of late- it had taken until Christmas for her to be healed enough for him to be confident in touching her, and there hadn’t exactly been much call for amorous activities the night before. Was that what Draco had meant? But how on earth could he tell? She shook her head and decided to try to put Malfoy out of her mind. A large mug of tea and some of the cauldron cakes left by Dobby should manage quite nicely, she thought. 

It was still with a deep sigh that she pulled her charms textbook towards herself, having settled her tea precariously on the arm of the sofa. Colour changing charms just couldn’t hold her attention, she finally decided, having turned her hair a strange dusty pink instead of the cauldron cake she’d been aiming for. Her heart clearly wasn’t in it. Instead, her attention kept dawdling back to the book sitting on top of her pile of work. 

With a sigh, she summoned the book, sending it zooming into her hand. She flipped the book open at random, landing in the chapter dedicated to what the author termed ‘creative punishments’. She giggled at some: one suggestion was to tickle one’s partner. Some sounded less silly, but in no way dangerous as she had expected: one that came highly recommended was the application of long lasting stinging charms to the sensitive regions of the submissive. It was clear that the book was written with a dominant wizard and submissive witch in mind, but this particular punishment, the author informed her, was best utilised on the ring of muscle guarding the anus, and thus, could be used on either sex. He based it, he said, upon a muggle practice known as ‘figging’, in which a stinging substance was placed to prevent the buttocks clenching during a spanking. A little over-the knee spanking seemed positively tame compared to all of this. She shook her head at her own silliness. None of this was abuse: it was as Robin said: a game. All through the book, the author pushed the use of what he termed a ‘safe-word’.

 

_ Whilst marital traditionalists, who insist upon the superiority of the husband, may find the idea of allowing the submissive an escape from the proceedings positively ridiculous, it must be considered. One would never wish to cause actual harm or distress, as this could cause physical injury or a rift so deep in the relationship as to never be healed. It is for this reason that all considering this type of relationship must, at the beginning, set out their expectations and agree upon a word, phrase or action that will, under any circumstances, bring a halt to proceedings.  _

_ Whilst for many, a simple ‘stop’ or ‘halt’ may be sufficient, if the couple are to engage in any play acting of reluctance, a different signal should be chosen. This should be a phrase that would otherwise not come up in the course of play, such as ‘quaffle’ (unless the submissive is to be an unruly quidditch player) or ‘puffskein’. _

 

Harriet giggled at the idea of an unruly quidditch player being spanked. It actually sounded almost fun. The chapter on spanking suggested that bending over a hovering broomstick made the bottom an excellent target.

Her charms book seemed to stare at her reproachfully for giggling when she should be working. Maybe she could at least pretend it was work. She flipped through to the ‘compendium of useful charms’ at the back. She took a gulp of tea and almost choked on it reading through some of the spells suggested.

 

_ A spell to conjure ropes and bind: Holding the wand loosely, incant the word ‘relligo’ whilst maintaining a circular motion with the wand around the limb or other area to be bound. To increase the tension, increase the speed of the wand motion. With practice and creative wand movements, this spell can be used very effectively for many binding purposes. _

_ A charm to keep a paddle or other disciplinary implement in motion: The basis of this charm is ‘everbero’, but it must be followed by the part of the body to be struck: for example, to keep a paddle striking the buttocks, the words ‘everbero gluteus’ should be cast upon the paddle. Caution should be exercised in the long-term use of this charm to ensure no injury comes to the submissive.  _

_ A purgative charm to empty the bowels in preparation for sodomy: (see chapter five for a full explanation of this charm before usage) ‘Purgatio’. _

_ A spell to remove the body hair: The ex folliculus charm may be used here, but with great caution. Hair removal potions usually provide better results. _

_ A spell to lubricate: Lubricus, with the wand indicating the orifice to be lubricated.  However, this spell is vastly inferior to the use of lubricating potions. _

_ A charm to open and stretch an orifice: Laxo is the basic form, followed either by ‘vagina’ or ‘anus’ as necessary. This charm should not be used to remove the gag reflex and stretch the throat, instead using: _

_ A charm to suppress the gag reflex in order to engage in fellatio: Oscitrudim, with the wand aimed to the mouth. This unusual charm will force a yawn in the recipient, properly opening the throat. _

 

Harriet yawned herself just reading about the reflex. She idly wondered how one would breathe, having a penis shoved down one’s throat, and shook her head at her silliness. It didn’t sound much like anything mentioned in this book was outright abuse, and it went so much further than Robin’s thoughts. In fact, it did all seem a little… silly, as if it was a very in-depth game. In fact, his little spanking demonstration had seemed downright tame: just his hand, no paddles, no spells. If all this really was as common in the magical world as the book suggested, maybe it just was fun between people who engaged in an awful lot of sex. Fun as sex was, she was guessing that the same old thing, sometimes multiple times a day, for wizard lifespans would certainly get old. She finished the last of her tea and set the book aside, going to ready herself for bed. 

She was careful to locate the glass dildo that Robin had given her before she climbed into bed, taking it with her. She swept the cold head up, splitting her already moisture-slicked lips wide before she worked it inside her, pumping it carefully with one hand whilst the fingers of the other tickled against her clit. Coming was not so hard, but it didn’t feel entirely satisfactory anymore, just leaving her with the sensation of emptiness in body and soul. She rolled over with a huff and went to sleep. 

Everyone seemed grumpy the next morning at breakfast. Neville was always tired and short tempered these days- Harriet had tried to speak to him on a few occasions, but the once happy and open young man had become sharp and resentful. It was only when Luna was there that he showed any affection to anyone anymore: with her he was gentle again. Hermione was tired, having stayed up reading, and no one could guess the cause of Ron’s foul mood. He just scowled at his eggs.

The arrival of the morning post mode a welcome distraction from the glum faces. Hermione unfurled her daily prophet, thumbing through it, even as Neville groaned at another letter from his grandmother.

A handsome snowy owl, bigger than Hedwig, swooped down to neatly deposit a cream envelope before Harriet. She frowned: she rarely received post, let alone such formal- looking post. Her heart skipped a beat when she spotted the name of the sender. 

“Wha’s tha’?” Ron asked around a mouthful of breakfast, stabbing his fork in her direction. 

“It’s from the Wizarding colleges,” she said quietly.

Suddenly, all eyes nearby were on her. “Well,” Hermione asked after a few moments of silence. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Harriet nodded, running her fingers along the upper edge for a few seconds. Hermione sighed. “Even if you didn’t get in, Harriet, there are other places. It’s the best of the best, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” she admitted, finally working up the courage to slide her finger beneath the flap and break the sealing wax. She unfurled the letter.  _ Dear Miss Potter…  _ Her eyes skimmed over the words.

“Well?” Ron asked, impatient.

“They… they want me to come for any interview on January the 21st,” Harriet said quietly.

“Harriet, that’s wonderful!” Hermione squealed. Harriet nodded, a slow smile finally spreading. Yeah, they hadn’t accepted her…. yet. But they also hadn’t rejected her. That had to be good news. 

A high-pitched ringing sound filled the hall. “Boys and girls, if I could have your attention, please,” Dumbledore called from the head table. His voice was magically amplified, something Harriet had never seen him do to get attention before. He was standing at his seat, leaning forwards to brace himself on the table. The hubbub of chatter died away and all faces turned to Dumbledore.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said, his voice still amplified. “Now, as I am sure the more eagle-eyed amongst you have noted, I am not terribly well. Along with the school’s board of governors, I have decided that it would be best for me to step back for a little while, until I have quite recovered.”

An immediate roar of noise rose as the students looked askance at him and each other. He called for silence again. “Now, now,” he said. “This is no cause for alarm. I will still be resident here, at the school, but I shall be keeping to myself in my chambers in order to rest and recuperate, on the orders of my healers. In my absence, Professor McGonagall will be taking on the duty as acting Headmistress. Professor Lupin will cover her role as head of Gryffindor in the meantime.”

Harriet’s eyes swept along the head table until she found the dark shape of Severus. His head was down, focused on his morning post. He didn’t look up, though she could have done with a reassuring glance at that moment. 

“Wow. Didn’t see that one coming,” Ron commented.

“Really, Ronald, how could you not?” Hermione snapped. 

Ron pulled a face. “He’s been here, like, forever, though,” he groused. “He’s kind of ageless.”

“He’s been really ill all year,” Harriet said. “You must have noticed. He’s hardly ever here, and when he is, he looks exhausted.” She shot a sideways glance at Neville, who didn’t look in the least surprised at the news from Dumbledore. She dropped her voice to a low whisper, forcing Ron and Hermione to lean in to hear her. “Severus has been going to dose him up on potions almost every night. I… I don’t think he’s going to live very long.”

Even Hermione gasped at that revelation.


	37. A well-executed duel

Every teacher in the school had problems keeping order in their classes that morning. Professor Sprout certainly wasn’t having much luck with her seventh-years. Only Neville kept his head down, carefully tending to his plant- their current projects were tiny trees, designed to hold spells for protection. Sprout had to snatch a young plant from Imogen before she pruned it to nothingness. 

Harriet sidled over to Neville. “You knew,” she whispered. It was easy to hide her words under the irrepressible chatter from her classmates.

Neville didn’t respond.

“I know you’ve been having lessons with him,” Harriet continued, undeterred. “How bad is it, Neville?”

A plant pot smashed firmly into Harriet’s face. The shards of the ceramic pot rained noisily onto the hard floor of the greenhouse. Someone gasped. Someone giggled. “Leave me alone!” Neville shouted, perfectly enunciating each word. “You just had to go and be a girl, didn’t you, Potter?” He picked up his carefully pruned magical bonsai and placed it in Professor Sprout’s hands before marching off, leaving the seventh year herbology students, and their teacher, in shocked silence. 

“Miss Potter, go up to the hospital wing,” Sprout finally said vaguely. “The blood isn’t good for the plants. Miss Granger, if you’d escort her?”

“C’mon, Harriet,” Hermione said gently, taking her elbow. Harriet pulled her hand away from her face, staring at the blood pooling in her palm. Hermione towed her away. 

“Ow,” Harriet complained, not sure if she was more upset about the blooming pain in her face or how hard Hermione was digging her sharp fingers into Harriet’s elbow.

Hermione just gripped harder. “What was all that about?” she demanded, not so gentle now she was tugging her friend across the school grounds towards the castle. “Neville doesn’t go around hitting people for no reason.”

“It was nothing,” Harriet snapped back, spitting out some blood. Neville was stronger than she’d thought: it felt like she’d taken a bludger to the face. Or at least what she thought a bludger to the face might feel like: she was too fast to have ever actually experienced a face-hit. “Apparently we’re all a little stressed right now.”

Hermione glanced at Harriet’s face and sighed. “It’s a good job Robin can’t see you now.”

Madam Pomfrey tutted when she saw Harriet, turning her face this way and that. “I thought I hadn’t seen you in a while,” she groused. “I was hoping you’d grown out of all the accidents. Why on earth are you so dirty?”

“It was a plant pot,” Harriet supplied. Her jaw hurt too. 

Madam Pomfrey sniffed, showing just what she felt about people who went around having plant pots smashed in their faces. “Sit down,” she told Harriet. “You’ll need cleaning up before I heal it, or you’ll end up with compost embedded in your face.”

“Eww,” Hermione supplied, perching on the end of a bed. Harriet gingerly climbed up next to her as Madam Pomfrey vanished into her storeroom. “Seriously, though, what did you say to Neville?”

“Can’t say here,” Harriet snapped, just before the matron reappeared with a couple of vials and some soft cloths. Madam Pomfrey gave Harriet one of the potions to drink. She tried to grimace at the taste, but screwing up her face just hurt. 

“Hush, and let me get on,” Madam Pomfrey chided. “Miss Granger, you may go.”

“I don’t mind staying,” Hermione said.

Madam Pomfrey fixed her with a steely glare. “I’m quite sure you have lessons to be getting on with,” she said pointedly. 

Hermione shot Harriet a glance that said ‘you’re going to explain everything later’ far more than it said sympathy. “See you later, Harriet,” she said, but Harriet couldn’t respond, since she was engrossed in flinching away from the stinging liquid Madam Pomfrey was attempting to clean her face with. 

“Hold still, child!” the matron chided, holding Harriet’s chin firmly in her free hand. Harriet hissed out her breath between her teeth as the mediwitch cleaned around her certainly broken nose. “Cracked jaw and a broken nose. I’m surprised you didn’t lose any teeth. Must have been a decent sized flowerpot. Whoever hit you had good aim,” Madam Pomfrey commented dryly. 

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed, pleased that the cleaning seemed to be over. A few wand-flicks later (and a grating bone-crunch that always accompanied healing breaks) and Harriet was able to breathe properly again. There was a lingering ache, but she knew from experience that it would fade over the next few hours. 

“Who was it, Potter?” Madam Pomfrey asked. “Can’t have anyone victimising you, after all.”

Harriet shook her head. “It wasn’t anything like that,” she promised. “It was Neville. He’s… upset. About Dumbledore.”

Madam Pomfrey sniffed in a way that said she didn’t quite believe her patient. “Violence is most unlike young Longbottom,” she granted. “Go on then- you’re all patched up. And try not to let me see you for another three months!”

Charms, too, was almost a write-off, though no one tried to injure her here. Flitwick eventually set them to reading, trotting around the classroom in a surprisingly Snape-like manner for a man not four feet tall. He rapped his wand sharply on Theodore Nott’s desk when he leaned over to whisper to Pansy Parkinson. “Class!” he squeaked. “I had thought better of you! Please, do our eminent headmaster the privilege of not forecasting imminent death. He is simply unwell,and requires time to recover.”

“No one who’s a hundred and fifty and looks that ill is getting better,” Ron mumbled under his breath.

Flitwick whirled, his cloak snapping behind him. “Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley!”

No one spoke after that. 

Lupin at least kept everyone too busy to talk. “I have a game for you,” he declared as soon as all the class were in. “Hermione, Draco, charm the desks to the sides of the room, would you? Okay, the rules… you’ll pair off, and duel, keeping your shields up. I’ll be making it more difficult for all of you. Freestyle duelling, no spells that won’t wear off by the end of the class period or that draw blood. If a spell hits, you’re out, and the victor of the pair duels the next victor to come available. Last one standing wins thirty house points. Any questions?” 

They all shook their heads, and Lupin called out names to pair together. He wandered around the class, randomly firing hexes to see how well everyone managed to keep shields up as they duelled with partners. He’d never again tried to partner Harriet with Lavender or Parvati, but today he’d decided that setting her against Draco Malfoy was a good plan. Eventually, pair after pair dropped away- Harriet and Draco were the only original pairing left. Harriet glanced to her left as she circled , carefully watching Draco. Both of them were cautious casters, preferring to keep a strong defence. Ron and Blaise Zabini were lost in a shower of sparks as spells hit shields, and Hermione had just hit Pansy with a jelly-legs jinx. Harriet grinned and avoided a hex from Lupin more by ducking than a use of magical shields, since her wand was occupied by a  _ Protego _ to fend off Draco’s sudden onslaught. She lost sight of how Ron and Blaise were doing in her desperation to fend off Draco’s sudden surge of spellcasting. 

Harriet and Draco were both of the school of duellists who removed their shoes before beginning a fight. Harriet’s tights-clad feet felt the seams in the floor as she moved, removing the need for her to look behind her as she moved to gain a better position. She could tell that Draco cast his shields low: a sensible option when fighting someone so much shorter than him. She favoured a dome-shaped barrier: it took more concentration to maintain it than a sheet shield did, but with Lupin moving about, it meant she didn’t have to keep track of the Professor as well as her opponent.

Her heel finally connected with her goal. To most of the class, it looked like she was backing herself into a corner, a surefire way to lose a fight, with nowhere to duck should your protections fail. If she’d been paying any attention to Lupin, she’d have seen a grin, though. What Draco seemed to have forgotten, or thought unimportant, was that this particular corner housed an ancient, unused podium, more reminiscent of a church pulpit than a lecturing stand. 

The few inches of the first step weren’t quite enough. She scrambled up to the third and top and cast a  _ Petrificus _ rapidly followed by a cushioning charm, causing Draco’s prone form to sink into a soft bed of air, his shields dropping. 

“Beautifully done, Harriet!” Lupin praised. “Brilliant use of the environment!”

Harriet grinned and removed the paralysing spell on Draco, letting him rise before removing the cushioning charm. “Good show,” he admitted grudgingly, holding out his hand for her to shake. 

“Okay,” Lupin said. “Harriet, Blaise, you have fifteen minutes of class left. Use it well.”

With a sinking heart, Harriet turned to face Blaise. She’d so hoped that Ron or Hermione would have knocked him out of the running, but her grinned at her, his teeth very white in his dark face. Lupin conjured her a glass of water, which she downed in one and assumed the guard position, her protections firmly in place. She cast the first spell, trying to blind him with a shower of bright sparks followed with an  _ expelliarmus _ almost on it’s heels. She had no luck, Blaise blocking easily. 

Lupin had stepped back, to ensure that it was one of the combatants who ‘won’, and not the teacher. Blaise, at least, was clever enough not to let Harriet use the same trick on him as on Draco: he placed himself firmly between her and the podium, and he kept his shields up high. 

Later on, she cursed herself for her foolishness. She fell victim to her own success, for it was probably her physically bypassing Draco’s shield that gave Blaise the idea. With Lupin out of the picture, she’d dropped the protections at her back in order to concentrate on her assailant. She had been fighting for an hour: she was tired. Blaise aimed his wand high and cried “ _ Repercuto!” _

Harriet didn’t know the spell, but it had whizzed over her head, missing her by inches. She saw the movement of his lips for the next spell, no matter how quietly spoken. As soon as the white light of  _ sectumsempra _ left his wand, she threw everything into her protections to repel such a powerful curse. It went over her shoulder as well, though. Sharp pain bloomed across her back an instant before the warm white light of Lupin’s protection spell wrapped around her. 

“Harriet!” Lupin cried as she crumpled to the floor, gasping. In two steps, he had slipped to the floor beside her, his face pale. Half of the class peered over his shoulder. Harriet groaned as he rolled her to her stomach to see the damage, blood spreading across the stones below her. “Class dismissed,” he barked, gathering Harriet up against his chest and bolting from the room, her head lolling against his shoulder, shock taking hold of her body. “Hang on, Harriet,” he muttered, even as he blood dripped down his arm and onto the floor behind him. Ron, Hermione and Draco were hot on his heels, Hermione even thinking to siphon the blood as they went.

Everything seemed strangely blurred and distant to Harriet. She heard Madam Pomfrey’s voice, but it was Severus who leant over her as Lupin set her as gently as he could on a bed. It was Severus’ hand that turned her to her stomach, and Severus’ voice that sang the healing words so softly. Madam Pomfrey’s hands were cool as the matron held her head back to tip a sleeping potion into her mouth. She slept through the subsequent raised voices.

“What kind of madhouse classes are you running, Lupin?” Severus demanded, his voice much harsher than the soothing motions he used to dab dittany against the angry red mark spreading across Harriet’s back from right shoulder to her waist on the left. He tore her blouse a little further to let him work. 

“Me?” the Defence professor riposted sharply. “That’s your spell, Snape, and it was one of your Slytherins who cast the damned thing!”

Severus’ hands stilled. “Which one?” he asked, quieter now. 

Lupin sank into a chair at the end of another bed. “Blaise Zabini. He reflected it off the wall behind her. I didn’t even realise what he was doing- I didn’t hear the spell he cast until it was too late. It looks like a disarming hex- just a streak of white light. Zabini’s fast.” 

“He is,” Severus agreed. “Malfoy, make yourself useful. Go and find Blaise. I want him in my office when I get back.”

Draco nodded and hurried away. “Granger, Weasley,” Severus continued. “Please fetch the Headmistress here. I don’t care if she’s teaching, tell her it is of the utmost urgency. Do not tell her what has happened.” 

Ron began to protest, but Hermione tugged on his arm, drawing him away. Madam Pomfrey held out her hand for the dittany-soaked cloth Severus had been using. “Thank you, Professor. I can take it from here,” she said primly. Severus nodded and gave up the cloth without a fight, retreating beyond the bed curtains Poppy twitched around her patient so she could prepare Harriet for bed. 

An hour later, Harriet opened her eyes to the stark white of the hospital wing. She pushed herself up on one elbow. “Ah, I see we’re awake,” Madam Pomfrey said, bustling over to prop a pillow behind her. 

“Yeah,” Harriet said vaguely. “Erm, what happened?” She glanced down at the starched white of the hospital nightgown with a wrinkle of her nose.

“You were hit by a cutting curse in your Defence lesson,” Madam Pomfrey explained, handing her a glass of water to rinse the fuzzy mouth always left behind by sleeping potions. “And there I thought I’d told you to stay away for at least three months,” she added with a small smile. 

“I remember… I think I remember… was Sever… erm, Snape here?” Harriet asked.

“Professor Snape was delivering a batch of potions to me when Professor Lupin brought you in,” Madam Pomfrey confirmed. “Professor Snape was closest- he healed you. He’s a trained mediwizard as well as a potions master.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harriet said, still feeling fuzzy.

Madam Pomfrey laid a dry, cool hand across Harriet’s forehead and cast a diagnostic spell with her wand at the same time. “You’ve lost quite a lot of blood today,” she informed her patient. “Blood replenishing potions for you for the next few days, I think. It’s probably best if you stay here overnight.”

“I can’t!” Harriet said hurriedly. “Please, Madam Pomfrey, I’ll be fine! I can sleep in my own room.” Robin was coming tonight, was all she could think. She couldn’t be here, or she wouldn’t see Robin, and she wanted to tell him that she’d been silly, that she didn’t mind that he had thought about spanking her. She threw the bedclothes back and sat up, but even that made her head spin. 

Madam Pomfrey pushed her back with a gentle shove, tucking her in again. “Nonsense, young lady,” she said. “You’re staying here if I have to use a sticking charm on you.”

No matter how much Harriet assured the matron that she’d take all her potions and be ever so good, Poppy held firm in her decision. Harriet had fallen into a sulk when Severus swept in. She looked up hopefully. “Professor Snape!” she cried out. “Madam Pomfrey says I have to stay here overnight!”

Severus pulled a chair up to her bed, raising a hand in greeting to the witch in question, who acknowledged him and disappeared into her office. “She’s quite right, Harriet,” Severus said quietly. “You lost a lot of blood. It’s best you stay where someone can keep an eye on you.”

“But Robin…” she pleaded, her voice low despite the empty room. 

“Robin will understand,” Severus assured her. “He’ll see you tomorrow, I’m sure.”

Harriet huffed and flopped her head back against the pillows. She’d hoped that Severus would override Madam Pomfrey. He cast the same diagnostic spell as she had earlier, and frowned at the result. “You’ve lost more blood than would be expected, given how fast Lupin arrived with you,” he complained.

“I lost some this morning,” she explained in exasperation. “Had my nose broken.”

Severus’ brows knit together. “Explain.”

“Got hit in the face with a plant pot,” Harriet sighed, bored of the story already- she’d had to tell it three times at lunch.

Severus began to ask further, but thought better of it when he saw her exasperation. He’d get the story from Poppy, even if it took a few tumblers of Glenquidditch whiskey, firewhiskey being too strong for the Matron’s tastes. “I thought you might be interested to know that Mr. Zabini has been given a week of detention with Professor Lupin, in addition to a week with myself,” Severus said. “The headmistress also saw fit to remove a hundred points from Slytherin. Your friends are baying for blood, or his suspension at the very least. I think you will probably have a visit from them soon.”

“Thanks,” Harriet sighed. Severus patted her hand, then surprised her by leaning over to kiss her on the forehead before he left. 

Ron and Hermione were exuberant in their astonishment at what they saw as an unfairly light punishment for Blaise, and were quickly sent away by Madam Pomfrey. Draco’s visit lasted a bit longer, but he too had to depart when Professor Lupin sidled into the room, pressing himself against the wall as though not wanting to really be there. Draco at least left Harriet with a small bar of chocolate to amuse herself with. Since all Hermione and Ron had brought was her schoolbag, abandoned in the Defence classroom, she thought Draco had a better idea of how to treat ill people. 

Lupin took Draco’s abandoned chair when he had gone. “I… I am very sorry, Harriet,” Lupin said quietly. “I should have been paying better attention.”

“So should I, Professor,” she admitted. “There’s no way I should have ignored that reflecting spell just because it missed me. Zabini’s too good to miss like that.”

“Yes, well,” Lupin sighed, not quite willing to agree. “I had no idea he’d use such a dangerous spell. He’s currently under the supervision of Mr. Filch, scrubbing your blood off my classroom floor without any magic whatsoever. I may have put a sticking charm on my floor as well.”

Even Harriet had to grin at that. The idea of Blaise on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush was some comfort, especially since she wasn’t in any pain, just rather dizzy if she sat up more quickly than a flobberworm could wiggle. Lupin leaned back in his chair. “I’ve just come from meeting all the Gryffindors- well, all except you, for obvious reasons. I’ll gather all of you up in year groups for hot chocolate and biscuits before bed over the next week or two to reassure everyone that I’m not going to eat any of you. I don’t know how long I’ll be left with head of house duties, but we’ll see, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed distractedly, remembering something she’d forgotten to tell Lupin. “Erm, could you grab my school bag, down there by the side of the bed? There’s something I want to show you.” 

Lupin handed over the bag without complaint, waiting as Harriet fished down to the bottom for the slightly crumpled letter from the Wizarding colleges. “Here,” she said, thrusting the thick parchment at him.

Lupin’s eyebrows rose as he read the letter. “Well done, Harriet,” he said finally. “If they’re interviewing you, that means they’re seriously considering you. Have you had time to ask Professor McGonagall for the time off yet?”

Harriet shook her head, and Lupin smiled indulgently. “Well, you have had a rather busy day,” he granted. “Incidentally, Neville is most apologetic about the plant pot incident. We had some trouble locating him, but he was finally found hiding out in one of the other greenhouses, most upset.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I kind of deserved it. Anyone could see he didn’t want to be bothered.”

“You’re a good friend, Harriet,” Lupin said, handing back the letter and stretching. “Your mum and dad would be proud of you.” He smiled at her, but Harriet didn’t respond. She just bit her lip and nodded when Lupin told her to get better soon and to look after herself.

At ten o’clock, Madam Pomfrey gave Harriet a blood replenishing draught. She doused the lamps in the main infirmary, but, with a knowing smile, she waved her wand at Harriet’s bed, levitating it off the ground and trailed it after her like a reluctant puppy into a side room. “This room’s usually used for infectious diseases,” she informed the confused Harriet, “but Professor Snape has suggested that someone else might like to visit you this evening. Remember that my room is next door, and I will hear any… exuberance.”

She had just shown Harriet the bell pull by the bed that would summon the mediwitch when the fire turned floo-green. Severus stepped through first, followed by a nervous Robin. “You’ve grown since I last saw you,” Poppy informed Robin with a smile.

“Hi, Poppy,” he said, but his eyes were fixed on Harriet. Madam Pomfrey waved him past, realising that she wasn’t going to have any sense out of him. He perched on the edge of her bed even as she was struggling out of the cocooning blankets to sit up. “Hey, kitten,” he said softly. “How’d you feel?”

She just threw her arms around his neck. Poppy shook her head fondly- she’d always liked Robin, having patched him up quite a few times in his life. “A nightcap, Severus?” she invited, indicating the door to her quarters. 

“You came,” Harriet breathed when the adults had gone. 

“Of course I did,” he murmured, brushing her hair back off her face. “Dad says it was a pretty bad curse you got.”

“Madam Pomfrey says I have to stay overnight,” she complained plaintively. 

He kissed her gently on the forehead, pushing her fringe back and brushing his lips over her scar. He liked the way she trembled when he kissed the sensitive flesh. “Do as they say, kitten,” he said firmly. “You need to get better, okay?”

“Hold me, please?” she requested. He arranged himself at the head of the bed, letting her lean back against his chest. She was asleep by the time Severus came back to usher a reluctant Robin back to their quarters. 


	38. Conversations: past and future.

Harriet was disappointed to wake alone, but it wasn’t unexpected. There was no way Robin could have remained in the infirmary with her overnight, even in the side room. She couldn’t help a smile, though, knowing that Severus had arranged his visit. Severus still gave off an air of stiff disapproval when she and Robin exchanged any show of affection in his presence, not that it was any deterrent to either teenager. Maybe he was finally warming to the idea of them together.

Madam Pomfrey appeared with a stack of clothes and a breakfast tray perched precariously on top. “Ah, up I see, Harriet,” she said. “Good. Now, how about we get you up and washed, and then, if you feel well enough, you have a visitor who’d like to see you whilst you eat your breakfast.”

Harriet looked up hopefully. “Is it Robin?”

Poppy laughed. “No, child. It’s not. Now, can you stand?”

Disappointed, Harriet pushed herself up in the bed, not feeling so dizzy anymore. Her legs were slightly shaky, but they held. “Right, then,” Madam Pomfrey said with a brisk nod. “Here, one of the house elves fetched some clean clothes for you. The bathroom’s just over there.”

Harriet shuffled through her pile of clothes (jeans, a t-shirt, her pink Weasley jumper) and went off to the bathroom. She really hoped it had been Madam Pomfrey who’d changed her into the nightgown, and not Severus. As he so rightly pointed out, she’d been born as naked as anyone else, but that still didn’t mean she wanted her boyfriend’s dad undressing her!

She gripped the handles set into the wall of the magical shower tightly, the heat of the water making her feel light headed again. She muttered a drying spell, having rescued her wand from beneath her pillow before coming in, and had to sit down for a moment’s rest before dressing. Just how much blood  _ had _ she lost? she wondered idly.

By the time she let herself out of the infirmary bathroom, Mrs Weasley was sitting by her bed, knitting. She cast the needles and wool to the side, springing up with surprising speed to wrap Harriet in her embrace. “Oh, I was so worried!” she informed Harriet, pressing the girl firmly to her breast. “Your hand on the clock went to ‘Mortal Peril’!”

“Hi, Mrs. Weasley,” Harriet managed.

Mrs. Weasley left a resounding kiss on the top of her head. “Now, then, sit down and eat your breakfast,” the motherly woman insisted. “You’re always just that bit too thin, dear, you could really do with a bit more by way of nutrition.”

Madam Pomfrey had left Harriet’s potions on the tray and she drank them as quickly as she could, hoping to get out of the hospital wing as soon as as she could. Potions out of the way, she turned her attention to the big bowl of porridge, topped with lots of brown sugar and cream, just the way she liked it. The house elves knew their charges, even if there were hundreds of people to look after. She smiled and dug her spoon in. She hadn’t noticed how hungry she was until she saw the steaming breakfast. She had missed dinner the night before, after all.

Mrs Weasley had picked up her knitting again. “Honestly, I was that worried,” she confided. “I couldn’t get through to the school for the longest time! If it wasn’t for Ron and Ginny still pointing at ‘school’, I’ have been sure it was You-Know-Who! I can’t think what Remus was doing, letting spells like that be used in his lessons. I shall be having words with him, you can be sure.”

“It wasn’t his fault, Mrs Weasley,” Harriet said tiredly. “He did say that he didn’t want to see any blood. It’s not his fault that Zabini disobeyed him.”

Mrs Weasley sniffed disdainfully. “His mother always thought she was above the rules too,” she supplied. “How she hasn’t been hauled in for questioning by magical law enforcement, I’ll never  know. Seven husbands! Seven, I tell you. Well, I have seven children, but one husband’s all I need.”

Harriet scraped up the last mouthful of porridge. “Mrs Weasley…” she began hesitantly, not sure if she wanted to ask this question.

“Yes?” Mrs Weasley prompted, raising an eyebrow. 

“What do you think makes a happy marriage?” Harriet asked, her words tumbling out atop each other. It wasn’t quite the question she wanted to ask- okay, it wasn’t even close. But then, she couldn’t exactly blurt out ‘do you think spanking is a good thing in a relationship?’ to Mrs. Weasley. 

Molly looked startled. “Well,” she began, floundering a little, “You’ve got to like each other, obviously. And you have to have a similar plan for life, similar goals.”

“What do you mean?” Harriet asked, toying with her spoon, rubbing it on the edge of the bowl. “Similar goals? what kind of goals?”

“Like… like how many children you want. Arthur and I both knew all our lives that we wanted lots of children.”

“Oh,” Harriet said. It wasn’t really the answer she’d been hoping for . It certainly didn’t shed any light on her current issues, and she’d never even really thought about children anyway. Did she want them? She supposed so, because otherwise there would be no one to carry on the Potter line, but it wasn’t an issue to which she’d dedicated any particular thought.

“Now then,” Mrs Weasley said, patting Harriet’s hand gently. “What’s brought all this on? I’d have thought you’d be wanting to play about a bit before thinking of marriage. After all, you’ve had a bit of a late start, as a girl anyway. Is there a special someone about?”

Harriet pleated the starchy bedclothes nervously between her fingers. “Kind of,” she admitted quietly. “He… well, I know he wants to get married and settle down, someday. And… I was just wondering what you thought. Because, erm, because I don’t really know many married people.”

Mrs Weasley began to pack away her knitting. “You’ve plenty of time to think about all that,” she assured Harriet. “I married young, and lots of your classmates will get engaged almost as soon as they’re off the train in the summer, but that doesn’t mean you have to. There’s no call to follow convention just because everyone else does. You’re not everyone, Harriet, and don’t let this boy of yours try to convince you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Harriet said with a half grin. 

Molly stood and patted her gently on the cheek. “Now, you you look after yourself,” she said sternly. “Do as Madam Pomfrey tells you, and don’t over-exert yourself. You know where I am too: I’m sure Remus will let you use his floo if you want to talk.” She smiled and took her leave, Madam Pomfrey passing her in the doorway.

“You’re quite the popular one,” Madam Pomfrey commented dryly after seeing Mrs. Weasley off. “She was quite determined to come and check in on you last night, you know. Professor McGonagall had quite the time talking her out of it. I think you had quite enough visitors last night anyway.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Harriet said distractedly. “Madam Pomfrey, what do you think makes a good marriage?”

Madam Pomfrey laughed. “I wouldn’t know, child. I never wanted to marry. No, not me! I’ll not have a husband dictating what I can do to me, no thank you! And losing so much time to childbed? No, I’m quite happy here, mopping up all the accidents you students get into.”

“But what do you think  _ would _ make a good one?” Harriet pressed. 

“House elves, most likely,” Madam Pomfrey informed her. “They make life much easier- you’ll never find a woman with a gaggle of house elves looking stressed about the cooking or cleaning. And a husband with a lot of his own business to keep him out of the house. And good sex.”

Harriet went pink, and Madam Pomfrey just smirked. “Now then,” she said. “Blood replenishing potions for the next week- one after breakfast, one after dinner.” She set a gently clinking box on the bed next to Harriet. “There are three reasonably strong painkilling potions in there too- they’re the blue ones, the blood replenishers are red. Don’t take them unless you need them, and come back to me if you think you need more. Rest as much as you can. Tell Robin from me that he’s to be very gentle with you in bed- no gymnastics.” Harriet went even more pink. She was convinced that even her ears were pink, just like Ron’s always went when he was embarrassed.

“Okay,” she agreed meekly. 

“And that means no quidditch for at least a week, young lady.”

Harriet gaped. “No!” she said. “No, I can’t not play quidditch! I’ve got a match next Sunday!”

Poppy narrowed her eyes. “You come and see me on Saturday,” she bargained. “If you’re well enough, you may play on Sunday. Not a moment before, mind. If I so much as see you on that pitch, I shall have you carted straight back here. I’m not having you fall off a broomstick.”

“But I have to coach my team!”

“Find someone else. You’re not to be within a hundred feet of that pitch. And no more duelling until I say otherwise either. Sleep, eat plenty, and don’t work over hard, and you’ll get better faster, and back on that infernal broom. And stay away from anyone else who wants to break your nose or curse you. Any more questions?”

“No,” Harriet said dejectedly. Madam Pomfrey shrank the box down with a tap of her wand and placed it on top of Harriet’s schoolbag. 

“I shall see you a week today, then,” she informed her patient. “Unless you feel ill, or antagonise any other students. Off you go, now.”

Harriet huffed and left before Madam Pomfrey could think of anything else to ban her from. Unfortunately, she could understand the matron’s instructions: she had to stop and rest against the wall three times on her way down to her rooms to assuage light-headedness. A couple of students looked at her in puzzlement as she leaned next to a suit of armour, but the corridors were mercifully quiet, and she reached her rooms without anyone attempting to hex her or help her. 

She sank down gratefully into her chair, and leaned her head against the high back. She barely even jumped at the crack of elf-apparition, but she sat up straight when she realised it wasn’t Dobby. 

As far as she knew, Dobby was the only elf who’d ever come into her room. He was certainly the only elf she’d seen here… until now. “Master Robin wanted Maltie to visit Mistress Harriet when she returned,” the elf said proudly. “He wanted Mistress Harriet to know that he is here, if she would like to see him.”

“But… I thought the house elves didn’t know Robin?” Harriet asked, her brain not quite functioning as she expected.

Maltie looked affronted. “Maltie is the personal elf of Master Severus,” he explained primly. “Maltie knows things that other elves do not.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, deciding that agreeing with the elf was probably the best plan. “I see. Thank you, Maltie. I’ll visit Robin in a minute.”

Maltie nodded, bowed, and was gone. Harriet levered herself out of her chair and reached for her pot of floo powder. She looked down in confusion: she’d been sure that it was nearly empty- she kept meaning to ask Severus for more, but now it was full of soft emerald powder. Either Maltie the house elf was now competing with Dobby for the care of her rooms, or it had been refilled by either Robin or Severus. Shaking her head- everyone seemed determined to look after her at the moment- she cast a pinch into the flames and swirled through.

There was no-one in Severus’ living room. She ambled down the hall to Robin’s room. “Hey,” she said, leaning in the doorway. Robin looked up from his sprawl on his cushions, a wide smile on his face. 

“Hey,” he replied, springing up and coming over to her. With one arm gently around her shoulders, he towed her to the bed, perching on the side with her. “How’d you feel, kitten?”

“Fine,” she said sulkily. “I’m fine. Just everyone keeps fussing, and I can’t fly for a week, and…” she realised her voice had risen into a whine, and there was a tear threatening to escape from the corner of her eye.

Robin slipped to the ground, kneeling in front of her so he could peer up into her downturned face. “We’re just worried, Harriet,” he said softly. “If dad was that worried about you, I know it’s bad, okay?”

“Stuff happens. I lost all the bones in my arm in second year. I just basically got cut, okay?” she snapped.

“Do you know what that spell does, Harriet?” Severus asked darkly from the doorway. Both teenagers jumped a bit, having not realised he was there. He crossed to the bed in two long strides. “It is the most dangerous cutting spell of which I am aware,” he informed her. “Most cutting spells go only as deep as the flesh, but  _ sectumsempra _ is designed to go much further. It can be used to amputate whole limbs with almost no effort: it is frighteningly easy to cast. It is fatal within a few minutes even if no major organs are affected, simply though blood loss.”

“Well you seem to know quite a lot about it,” she snapped. 

Severus inclined his head. “I invented it,” he said quietly. “At first, I was looking for an amputation spell- removing limbs is rarely necessary in the magical world, but when it is, it’s a messy, drawn out process. In my foolishness, I spread it amongst the Death Eaters, hoping to gain favour. I despise that spell.” He reached out a tentative hand to stroke her hair. “I can’t lose you, Harriet. Not after so many years of waiting.”

The traitorous tear left Harriet’s eye, and another. She choked out a sob. Very carefully, Severus gathered her up in his arms, pulling her onto his lap. “Cry if you need to,” he said gruffly, holding her close.

“It’s just,” she said, feeling slightly silly, “that I can’t play quidditch, and everyone keeps telling me what I can and can’t do, and I’m cold, and dizzy and sleepy, and I hate it!”

“You’re cold and dizzy on account of the blood loss,” Severus pointed out gently. “I’m delighted that you’ve been told not to play quidditch. If you are dizzy, you are in no fit state to be on a broom.”

“But it’s the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match next Sunday,” Harriet sniffled. “The team’s going to hate me if I can’t play. They’ll hate me anyway because I can’t coach. Most of them do what I say, but they don’t like me, since I’m a girl now. They only listen to me because I’m good at quidditch.”

Severus firmly moved her further away on his lap so he could look down at her. “Your prowess on a broomstick is the only reason your team should respect you. One does not keep control of such a group by being ‘liked’” He said the last word with such sarcastic venom that even Robin lifted an eyebrow.

“Don’t you want friends?” she asked, curious. She also shivered. “You’re not as mean as you pretend. You like Madam Pomfrey, and you care about Robin.”

Severus gave a long suffering sigh. “Robin, that blanket, if you would be so kind?” he asked, holding out his hand to receive the aforementioned item. He tucked it firmly around her, holding her close again. Harriet leaned into him, amazed at how comfortable she was being held by him now. It felt natural, paternal, even. “I inhabit a very precarious situation,” Severus explained tersely. “I do not have the luxury of being able to trust anyone enough to term them a ‘friend’. I have good working relationships with some of my colleagues, like Poppy and Filius, but they are not friends. I see Albus as something of a mentor, perhaps, but also my employer. Robin is my child, you are my godchild- family is quite different to friendship.”

“I think you’re wrong,” she said with a yawn. “I think family can be friends.”

Severus gave a noncommittal grunt. “How is your back?” he asked.

“A bit stiff,” she admitted. She hadn’t been able to reach behind her and fasten her bra when she’d dressed. 

“May I see?” Severus asked solicitously. “Not that I doubt the abilities of our esteemed Matron of course.”

Harriet bit her lip. “I… I suppose so,” she agreed, knowing from his tone that it was not so much a request as an assumption that she would allow him to. She supposed he’d already seen everything when he’d healed her. She tugged her jumper up, Severus’ hands gathering the pink wool at her neck, revealing her back and most of her stomach. He bent her forwards at the wait, and his long fingers skittered over the scar- she hadn’t realised how big it was, slashing diagonally the full length of her back. She heard Robin’s sharp intake of breath, and tried to crane her neck to see her back. 

“Here,” Severus said gently, conjuring a mirror behind her and another for her to look into. The curse-scar was vivid pink and puckered “The scar should fade away over the next few weeks- we applied dittany quite quickly. I would advise another application, however- would you prefer me to do so, or Robin?”

“Robin, please,” Harriet requested quietly. She’d rather not get dittany all over her jumper, so she knew she’d have to take it off. If it had been a year ago, the very idea of having Severus Snape touch her would have made her shudder. She didn’t mind now- she knew he was not in the least slimy, but she’d still rather it was Robin touching her, particularly if she had to be half naked.

He let her sit up properly, having had her draped forward across one of his arms, and her jumper fell back to its correct position. “Very well. I shall fetch the salve.” She clambered off his lap, taking her blanket with her. 

It took only a few moments for Severus to return. “Here,” he said, handing the jar over to Robin along with a few soft cottony cloths. “Be generous with it,” he advised before taking his leave. 

“You don’t mind?” Harriet asked, suddenly nervous.

“Not at all,” Robin assured her with a shake of his head and a  very small, slightly forced smile. 

She pulled her jumper over her head. “Where would you like me?”

“Erm, on the bed, I think,” he suggested. She stretched out on her tummy. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured, and she was strongly reminded of the first time they’d slept together. He soaked the cloth in dittany and began smoothing it over the puckered skin in gentle strokes. It felt good, Harriet decided. 

“I can’t believe one of your classmates did this,” he said softly. “I thought you weren’t meant to hurt each other.”

Harriet’s voice was muffled, her head buried against the pillows. “We’re not. But Blaise and I aren’t exactly friends.”

Robin’s hands stilled. “Blaise?” he asked, his voice catching. “Wasn’t it Blaise who… groped you?” He’d wanted to say ‘tried to rape’, but somehow couldn’t quite get the words out.

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed, arching her back a little to persuade him to continue.

He took the hint, smoothing more salve onto her lithe back. “I’d have thought you’d be one of the popular ones,” he mused. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be people wanting to curse you.”

Harriet could only snort at the idea of her being popular. She turned her head so she could see him. His face was stormy. “Were you popular at school?” 

The laugh escaped him all in one go, more a snort. “Not likely. Long haired kid, gangly and pale and decidedly not sporty. A mother who wasn’t trusted to look after kids. A dad who only seemed to show up for parent’s evening and birthday parties, and spent the whole time in the corner glowering. And then, after my mum died… well. Someone called social services, because they thought I was living alone. I was here, and I think Dad had to do some playing with minds to get them to go away. I didn’t have friends until I started uni, not real ones. I had girls who came back to me because I was… well, good in bed, I suppose. But that just caused jealousy amongst the boys.”

“Oh,” Harriet said. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You had it crappier, I think.”

“No one ever called social services on the Dursleys,” she said. “I guess… everyone just believed them when they said I was incurably criminal, that I refused the nice things they tried to give me…”

“Oh, kitten,” he breathed, his dittany-free hand petting her hair. “At least I always had Dad to sort everything out, even though he wasn’t the most affectionate of parents. Although it was a close thing, when no Hogwarts letter came for me.” He finished his ministrations and replaced the lid on the pot of dittany, setting it on the bedside table. He stretched out full length beside her, on his side, propped up on one elbow. “I thought he wouldn’t love me anymore. I know now that he was expecting it- he knew that if I hadn’t manifested, had any accidental magic by the time I was eleven, there was no way I was magical enough to go to magic school.”

“Shame I had the magic and you didn’t,” she said. “You could have gone to Hogwarts, and the Dursleys probably wouldn’t have hated me quite so much if I hadn’t kept regrowing my hair and landing up on the school roof. I was doing weird stuff for as long as I can remember.”

“No, Harriet,” he breathed. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” He bent to kiss her temple, then her cheek. She turned her face further up, and he kissed her nose, then, finally, captured her lips. “If you hadn’t had magic, I’d have never met you.”

 


	39. In heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After yesterday's very sad news about Alan Rickman, I wish I had a Snape-y chapter to give you, but, as often happens, these things conspire against us, and I have some Robin-fluff to offer instead. Whilst the Snape in my head looks a bit different than the one portrayed by Rickman, his voice will always, always be Snape to me.   
> With that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, I love reviews, so feel free to stoke my ego as much as you;d like!

Harriet most certainly was not going to relay Madam Pomfrey’s message to Robin, but he was infuriatingly careful with her anyway. They lay together on his bed, her back tucked firmly against his front, his arms wrapped around her torso. She tried to tug his hands down to the button of her jeans, but he resolutely returned them to cup her still-bare breasts. 

“You’ve been injured, Harriet,” he reminded her, one thumb slipping across the pebbled peak of her nipple. His voice was muted, almost sleepy, his face buried into the crook of her neck. His breath softly warmed her skin. “I might hurt you.” 

“Robin,” she pleaded, her hand covering one of his. “I need it. I’ve needed it for ages.”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Finally hitting you, isn’t it?” he asked. He brushed his lips over her collarbone in a soft kiss. 

She huffed and turned in the circle of his arms. One of his hands buried beneath her hair, firm against her neck and head. “What is?” she demanded, before he silenced her with a hard, pressing kiss. She moaned into his mouth, melting against him.

He was the one to draw back, a hint of mirth tugging at the corners of his lips. “Wizarding hormones,” he explained,  his free hand rubbing over an uninjured part of her back. She shivered, and he strained to reach the blanket she’d been wrapped in earlier, draping it over her half-clothed form. “My dad called it ‘going into heat’ when I hit fifteen. For months, sex was basically all I could think about. I was pretty much tag-teaming between three girls. I’m not proud of it.”

“Well, that’s how I’ve felt for the past week. So can you get over it and just fuck me?” Harriet demanded, her voice catching in her throat. Her hands crept up beneath his typical black t-shirt, splaying against the heat of his smooth back.

“Give yourself some time, kitten,” he murmured. “Let’s see how you feel tomorrow, okay?”

Harriet growled in frustration. “But I want it now, Robin!” 

“I know,” he soothed. “I know you do. I should imagine your reading material didn’t help much.”

“My… reading material?” she questioned, puzzled. 

Robin rolled away from her as far as was possible, given that she was lying on his left arm, reaching for something on his bedside table. “I was in your room earlier,” he explained. “I’d left one of my books in there.” She knew that much: she’d picked up a dog-eared copy of  _ The Wasps _ , hoping to find a common interest in Greek literature, and thrown it aside in disgust. She couldn’t make anything of it; it may as well have been in the original Greek and not an English translation for all the good it did her. “Anyway,” he continued, “I found this.”

Harriet closed her eyes in mortification. The book from the library… “Oh,” she squeaked. “Erm, that…. You see, I was just…”

He kissed her again to keep her quiet. “It’s okay,” he murmured when he pulled back. “I know. You were just doing some research. And I owe you an apology. I explained all of this badly. I should have told you that it’s not about pain, or even really about power. It’s about trust, and love, and giving to each other.”

“Okay,” she whispered. That did sound better than what he’d said before, about it being nothing more than a game.

He continued speaking, his tone light, casual. “I was quite interested in this book: I hadn’t realised that it was an accepted thing in the wizarding world. It also had some rather… interesting propositions.” He kissed her softly on the forehead. “I don’t know that much about the whole BDSM culture, to be honest, even the muggle one. I like learning about things. What did you think?”

Harriet could feel her cheeks burning. One careful finger brushed against her cheek. “You can’t spare the blood for that blush, kitten,” Robin told her. “How about we discuss it more tomorrow?”

“Why not now?” she demanded. Perhaps she could get him worked up enough that he’d agree to take her to bed. He’d gone back to tracing lazy patterns on her back, carefully avoiding the scarring.

“Because it’s nearly lunchtime for you,” he informed her, his voice as silky and deep as his father’s. “And because…” he took a  deep breath. “Would it be okay with you if I went home for a while this afternoon and evening? I was meant to be out with some friends last night, and I sort of… abandoned them when Dad said you were ill. They were really good about it, but I’d like to see them tonight instead. I’d be here tomorrow.”

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to be without Robin, but she knew she was being unreasonable. He didn’t have that much time for his friends between his lectures and coursework, his job, and seeing her. “You should go,” she whispered. Then, an idea. “Maybe… maybe I could come too?” she suggested shyly. “You’ve met my friends, after all…”

“You know the answer to that, Harriet,” he said firmly. “You’re not allowed to leave the school.”

“No one would need to know,” she wheedled. “I could go through the floo with you, when your dad’s at a meal…”

“No.” His hand dipped to cup her bottom through the thick denim of her jeans, and he squeezed firmly to reinforce his point. “There’s a reason you have to stay, as you well know. It’s to keep you safe. It’s not so very long until the end of the school year, then you can do what you want. But until then, you have to do as you’re told.”

She sulked, turning her face down away from him. He left a trace of a kiss at her hairline. When he spoke again, he sounded like he was smiling. “Besides which, you’re under eighteen. Nowhere will serve you alcohol, and some of the places we go, you have to be eighteen to even get in.”

“Do your friends even know I exist?” she asked sulkily, her voice muffled by the blanket and the fact that she spoke directly into his chest. 

“Of course,” he said, petting her hair. “Well, they know I have a girlfriend, and she’s still at school. They know you’re at the same school my dad teaches at, but they think he’s a chemistry teacher at a school somewhere in Lancashire, and I visit you every weekend.”

“It’s not fair,” she complained. “I want to go somewhere with you.”

“I know, kitten,” he said. “Me too. But I can’t protect you. I know you’re good at defence, but if something happens to you, I can’t help. Please, kitten, just hang on. In six months, you can meet my friends. We can go places together. Just wait until you finish school, please.”

She suddenly realised she hadn’t told him! She finally extricated her face from the blanket and looked up at him. “I’ve got an interview at the Wizarding colleges,” she said.

He really did smile then. “That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed. “See, you’ll be in Lancaster. That’s not so far from me. We can tell everyone you’re at Lancaster University, and you can meet all my friends.”

“I have to actually get in first.”

“I know you’ll do well,” he informed her. 

He bent his head to kiss her soundly, his tongue brushing against her lips. She eagerly deepened the kiss. Finally, his fingers dipped below the band of her jeans, brushing against the skin of her waist. She’d never realised how sensitive that particular place was before. She mewled against him, pressing against him desperately, her fingers fumbling with the buckle on his belt. “No, kitten,” he chided softly. “Not today. We agreed.”

She didn’t think they’d agreed. He’d told her. “I feel so  _ empty _ ,” she protested. 

“I might be able to help with that,” he said. “Did you use all of the things I sent you?”

She frowned. What did he mean? Then she remembered. “Those funny little ball things?” she asked. “I didn’t know what they were for.”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go through to your room. I’ll show you.” 

He urged her up, and she pulled on her jumper. “I wish the floo was to your fireplace,” she grumbled, following him out of the room. 

“I did ask dad to connect them. He said no.” Robin said. Harriet huffed. Why did Severus keep meddling in their relationship? “Your stock of floo powder was abominably low, by the way. I refilled it.” 

He offered her the pot of powder from Severus’ mantle first. She whirled through, and turned immediately to watch him follow. This time, she caught it: a moment of a wince as he landed on her hearth rug. He quickly smoothed out his features, though. “Where’d you put them?” he asked, as if he hadn’t just felt like he was being burnt. 

Harriet had to stand on tiptoe to reach the box she’d put on top of her wardrobe. Robin reached over her head, fetching it down for her and removing the pale pink spheres. “Come here,” he said, taking her hand and leading her over to the bed. He deftly unfastened her jeans, and her breath caught in her throat. Was he going to...? She tugged the offending fabric down over her hips. 

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Up on the bed with you. Spread your legs for me…” His fingers almost tickled as they brushed up her thighs, pushing them apart. He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of her, his head level with her needy pussy. “Oh, you’re wet,” he breathed. “You really do need it.”

“Yes,” she agreed, desperately. She thought he was going to lick her, kiss her… but she wanted more. She wanted to feel him inside her. 

It wasn’t the anticipated touch of his tongue, though. He easily slid a finger into her, but quickly replaced it with one of the balls in his hand. Her breath caught as he pushed it against her, the weight and size stretching her. Then, it was inside her, and the next was pressing against her. “Good girl,” he repeated, one finger ghosting once over her swollen clit. “You can take these.” He pressed against the second ball, and it, too, slipped in. He leaned forward to kiss her, just above her clit, and she whined high in the throat, trying to push her hips closer to him. She did feel full, at least.

He chuckled and pulled away from her, then crawled up onto the bed beside her. “Let’s see how you do with those for a few hours,” he murmured, brushing her thumb across her cheek. 

“Hours?” she exclaimed. “But I have to go to lunch!”

“I know,” he said gravely. “Consider it our naughty little secret, okay? Keep them in until at least after lunch, and then, tomorrow, you can tell me how you liked it, okay?”

“I can’t go gallivanting about the castle like… like this!” she protested, reaching down between her legs to pull the offending items out. he caught her wrist, and gently cupped her cheek in his other hand, looking at her intently.

“If you truly don’t want it, that’s fine, Harriet. I’m not demanding you do anything. I just thought it might be… exciting for you.”

She bit her lip nervously. It did feel good, she had to admit. “Won’t everyone know?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Of course not. Here. Pull up your knickers and jeans, and walk about a bit. Make sure it’s comfortable.”

Shaking, she did as she suggested. With each step, the balls shifted oddly against each other inside her, causing a gasp the first few trembling steps. She’d been worried that they’d fall out, but her muscles squeezed against them instinctively. Robin, propped up on one elbow eyed her speculatively. “I know a girl who swears by those,” he said conversationally. “She says it makes sex feel much better if you wear them regularly.”

“For her, or her boyfriend?” Harriet asked, bouncing on the spot to feel the movement inside her. 

Robin smiled indulgently at her acting like the middle of her room was a trampoline. “For her. Although I should imagine it goes both ways. I gather you like them then?”

“I suppose so,” she said, flinging herself on the bed, trying to sound nonchalant. He laughed and leant down to kiss her. 

“You need to go to lunch,” he reminded her, “and I should get going soon. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She groaned, and pulled him back for another kiss. “I don’t want to,” she grumbled.

Nevertheless, he packed her off to lunch. It did feel deliciously naughty, walking through the castle stuffed full of the balls. She thought she had the blush under control by the time she got the great hall.

She was a bit early for food. Ron and Hermione were there already, and Ginny, sitting on Hermione’s far side, was trying to enchant an origami broom to fly, but it kept nosediving. Harriet slipped into the seat opposite Ron. “The charm’s too far forward,” she informed Ginny. “It should be in the central twigs, like a real broom.”

Ginny glanced up. “Shut up, Potter,” she snapped, but Harriet noticed that the broom was flying better a few minutes later. 

Hermione bounced in her seat. “Harriet! You’re out! How’re you feeling?”

“Yeah,” she said with a smile, experimentally shifting on her bench. “I’m out. I’ve got to take blood replenishers for the next week though. Erm, Ron, Ginny… I might not be fit to fly for the match on Sunday. I’m trying to convince Pomfrey. Ginny… you might have to play seeker.”

The redheaded girl gave Harriet a look of venom. “Ugh. Fine. Since you can’t even dodge a simple curse!”

“Gin!” Ron cried. “That’s not fair! That was a dark curse; she could have died!”

Ginny mumbled something that might have been ‘shame she didn’t’, and shuffled down the bench to talk to a just-arrived sixth year boy. Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know why she can’t just let it go,” she said to Harriet. 

Harriet shrugged, reaching for the tureen of soup that had just popped into existence on the table. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m kind of used to it by now. Can’t say I’m happy about it, but…”

“Yeah,” Hermione sympathised with a wry smile. 

“So, Harriet wanted to know, “What’d I miss, being kept prisoner in the hospital wing?”

Hermione tore a bite of bread off her roll. “Well, Neville won’t really talk to anyone,” she said. “But Professor Lupin came to talk to us all. Told everyone where his rooms are, and he put a kind of bell-pull thing in the common room in case we need him during the night. And she said that he’s going to meet with every year group separately so we can get to know him.”

“He visited me too, last night,” Harriet said. “Said the same kind of stuff. So, what’s going on with Neville?”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. He was really quiet all last night, after they finally found him in greenhouse eleven- Merlin knows how, no-one uses that greenhouse. Then, about nine last night, McGonagall came to get him. She didn’t say what was wrong, but Neville looked like he wasn’t surprised.”

“He looked like he was going to the firing squad, actually,” Hermione interjected. Ron looked confused. “It’s… a method of execution,” Hermione explained.

Ron shrugged away the ‘muggle-ism’. “Whatever. He looked really scared. Anyway, no-one’s seen him since.”

“Maybe something’s wrong with his Gran?” Hermione suggested, but she didn’t sound sure. Harriet snorted, but said nothing. A far more likely prospect was that Dumbledore had taken Neville on another Horcrux-hunt. She knew she shouldn’t feel put out- after all, why should she want to be put in danger? And she’d been in no fit state to go anywhere last night.

Idly, she wondered if perhaps Voldemort could be defeated without her even being there. Perhaps Neville would go off and kill him, and she wouldn’t need anything to do with it. Then she could go and live her life in obscurity- neither the boy who lived, since she was a girl, or the vanquisher of Voldemort. The idea was a pleasant one. She could even marry and change her name, not even be a Potter anymore. No one would recognise the name Harriet… Snape? She couldn’t help a shudder at the realisation that taking Robin’s name would leave her a Snape. No hope for obscurity in the wizarding world there: Every Hogwarts student for the past sixteen years had been taught by Severus, and it wasn’t a wizarding name, so it wasn’t like there was a multitude of Snapes to whom she could be related. If people hadn’t been taught by Severus, they probably remembered him from their own school days. Maybe marrying to change her name wasn’t such a good idea.

Which would be worse, she wondered, Harriet Snape or Harriet Malfoy? She was jolted out of her musing when Hermione nudged her sharply in the ribs.

“It’s quite all right,” Lupin was saying. “I’m sure Harriet is very tired.”

“Sorry, Professor?” Harriet said. She hadn’t even noticed him come over, but there he was, straddling the bench opposite her. 

“I was just asking if the three of you are available this afternoon, about four o’clock, for some tea in my rooms? I’d like to get the seventh years together for a chat. I’d rather get everyone together before I am… indisposed, next week.”

“Oh, yes, that’s fine,” Harriet assured him. “Well, at least for me…” she said, glancing either side to Ron and Hermione.

Ron snorted. “Merlin, you really are dozy today. We’ve already said that we can.”

“Don’t worry, Professor, we’ll make sure she gets there,” Hermione assured their gentle head of house with a laugh at Harriet’s vagueness. Lupin didn’t return the laugh, or even smile: he just looked serious and sad.

“I’ll see you later,” he said by way of farewell.  

“What’s up with you?” Ron demanded. “You were completely spaced!”

“Blood loss,” Harriet said, deadpan, not at all willing to admit that she’d been contemplating the benefits or otherwise of various married names. Ron would probably suggest ‘Weasley’, just to be difficult- he’d probably joke about marrying her off to both of the twins at the same time. “What are you two doing for the next few hours?”

“Work,” Ron replied morosely. “She,” (with a jerk of his elbow at Hermione,) “won’t leave me alone.”

“That essay’s due on Monday, Ron, and you know how much you’re struggling with that transfiguration into a potted plant!”

Harriet groaned. She, too, failed at the potted plant- last time she’d tried, she’d had her pointy Hogwarts hat perched on her hydrangea head at a jaunty angle. Everyone had laughed. “How about we work in my room?” Harriet suggested. “I’m not really feeling up to the library.” That, and she’d rather be in her room than the library, so she was near her own bathroom to take out Robin’s gift if she needed to.

Hermione looked shocked. She wasn’t used to Harriet being around at weekends for much more than meals. “What about… well, you know?” she asked. “Your visitor.”

Harriet shrugged. “He said he had something with friends today. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Does he know you were, well, hurt?” 

Harriet nodded. “Snape even snuck him in to see me in the hospital wing,” she admitted in a whisper. Ron made a noise of disgust even as Hermione cooed in delight. At least both agreed to eschew the library in favour of her room, though, she suspected, for quite different reasons. Hermione, she imagined, wanted the undisturbed tranquility of being locked away from the rest of the school, and the younger students who wanted her help. Ron, on the other hand, wanted to be able to talk as loudly as he wanted, possessing very little by way of an ‘inside voice’, and bribe some cakes out of Dobby. Personally, Harriet wanted to curl up on the oversized pillows in Robin’s room, but she didn’t think Severus would appreciate her marching her friends though his quarters just for the pillows. She wondered if Dobby could find her some for her room.

  
  



	40. A meeting with Lupin

“It’s almost four,” Ron pointed out. “We should get going.” Harriet glanced at her watch. It was, in fact, half past three. She knew it wouldn’t take half an hour to get to Lupin’s office from here, but she was willing to bet that Ron was bored. He’d spent the last half an hour trying to enchant his quill to write for him. Hermione had suggested that he should just consider a dicta-quill. She’d just received a broken quill chucked in her direction for her suggestion. It would appear that the quills weren’t capable of taking the charms he was using, as they kept cracking.

Harriet shifted in her seat. Should she remove the balls, she wondered? She had thought they would drive her mad, but she’d become oddly used to them. The weight of them was almost… comforting. And she wanted to prove to Robin that she could do this. That, and the knowledge that she was near other people with a deliciously full pussy and damp knickers gave her an illicit thrill. She decided to leave them. “Yeah,” she agreed.

“You’re only keen because Lupin mentioned cake,” Hermione said distractedly, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. She sighed and rolled up her parchment, sliding it into her bag. “Come on then, if we’re going.”

It most certainly didn’t take almost half an hour to walk to Lupin’s quarters: They were early. The door swung open as soon as Hermione knocked. “Hello? Professor? she called, seeing no one there.

“Come in,” Lupin called. Hermione took a confident step into the room, with Harriet and Ron following. “Ah, excellent, three more!” Lupin said. “Make yourselves comfortable. There’s drinks on the sideboard, help yourself.” He was perched on a footstool near the fire, apparently having been deep in conversation with Neville. Ron made a beeline for the sideboard, followed at a more sedate pace by Hermione. Harriet, though, dithered. 

She perched just on the very edge of a chair next to Neville. “Hi, Neville,” she offered in quiet greeting. “I… erm, I’m sorry I was going on at you, yesterday morning. I was hoping we might be able to forget it?”

Neville looked startled. “But… I broke your nose,” he stammered. “I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me again.”

“I kind of deserved it,” Harriet admitted. “You… erm… well, you know where I am if you ever need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Neville squeaked, and Harriet gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile. She stood, and felt everything inside her shift. She tightened, squeezing deliciously. She was pleased that she’d decided to keep them in. It was a reminder of Robin, and she liked to think that she could be a better person when she thought of how gentle he was with her. He’d have tried to make amends with Neville, she thought. Satisfied that she’d at least extended a branch of friendship, she fetched herself a cup of tea from the sideboard and took the chair closest to the fire. Shivering through this probably wouldn’t convince anyone she was well enough to be up and about.

Dean and Seamus were the next to arrive, as Lupin put plates of cake and biscuits on the table in the middle of the room, closely followed by Imogen and Faye. Imogen immediately snuggled into the sofa next to Ron, and Harriet was surprised to see her friend wrap a casual arm around the girl. Ron wasn’t usually a touchy-feely type, and he didn’t parade his conquests in public. She also didn’t miss the glare that stayed in Hermione’s eyes for only a second before she schooled her emotions. Was she jealous of Imogen? Harriet wondered, taking a cream cake when the plate was passed to her. It wasn’t like Hermione to be jealous about Ron’s conquests.

Lavender and Parvati were the last to arrive, seating themselves on the peripheries, even shuffling their chairs a scant couple of inches out. Lavender turned down cake with a sniff, and Parvati quickly snatched her hand back from the plate at her friend’s reaction, shaking her head..

“Well, I think that’s everyone,” Lupin said. “Thank you, all of you, for giving up some of your Saturday time: I know it’s precious.”

There were little murmurs of agreement and acceptance, but no one seemed quite sure of why they were here. “I’ve spoken to the first years already, but I wanted to meet with you before I start talking to anyone else. I’d like your views on how Gryffindor is run.”

“Sir? Seamus asked, echoing everyone’s thoughts.

Lupin took a sip of his tea. “Things have changed somewhat since I was a student,” he explained. “I would like to know if any of you have an ideas for improvements to the house.”

Lavender half put up her hand, unsure if she was to act as if in a lesson. “Go on,” Lupin said with a nod in her direction. “There’s no need to wait for permission to speak here; it’s just an informal discussion.”

Lavender cleared her throat delicately. “I don’t think  _ he _ should be here,” she said. Harriet’s heart turned icy.

“Forgive me,” Lupin asked with a blink, “but who do you mean?”

“Potter,” she clarified for him. Ron immediately cried out, but Lupin waved him into silence. “He’s not really a Gryffindor,” Lavender continued smoothly, ignoring Ron’s interruption. “It’s not like he sleeps in Gryffindor.”

“And whose fault is that?” The question burst from Ron like a jet of water from a previously dry tap: sudden, noisy, and it made you jump.

“I fail to see your point, Lavender,” Lupin replied as if Ron had never spoken. “Miss Potter- I do apologise, I had presumed that everyone was aware that Harriet is female, and thus female pronouns should be used- Miss Potter is every bit as much a Gryffindor as everyone here.  She may not sleep in the tower due to her unusual circumstances, but she was sorted into the house, and earns points for it alongside all of you. She even captains the quidditch team.”

“Well I think it’s unnatural,” Lavender sniped. “And I don’t want to pollute myself with it.”

Harriet swallowed thickly, tears of shame already threatening to spill. She stood to leave, but Lupin’s hand wrapped gently around her wrist. “Sit down, Harriet,” he murmured. “I think it best if we meet separately to discuss your feelings, Miss Brown,” he said, louder.

Lavender sniffed and stood with a glare in Harriet’s direction, kicking over her untouched glass of pumpkin juice in the proces. “Fine,” she said. “It’s not like I want to sit around here listening to a filthy werewolf either. Come on, Parvati.”

Parvati looked up, her eyes wide with shock. Lupin cut in. “Parvati, you may, of course, leave, but if you do, I shall be expecting you in detention with Miss Brown at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, where we shall be discussing attitudes towards those different to ourselves.” Almost imperceptibly, Parvati shook her head at her friend, the motion cascading down her waterfall of hair.

Lavender huffed and turned on her heel, wrenching the door open. “Remember, ten o’clock tomorrow, Lavender,” Lupin called after her. A flick of her hair was the only response. Imogen quietly leaned over to clean up the spilled pumpkin juice.

Lupin sighed as she slammed the door. “Well, it appears we are one down. Let us return to our previous topic: is there anything that you wish to see changed in Gryffindor?”

Hermione leaned forwards. “Well… I’d like to  have a quiet space, or a quiet time in the common room, where everyone just got on with homework.”

Lupin nodded. “Something similar happens in Ravenclaw, I believe,” he offered. “Three times a week, they have a sort of study club in their common room, and people can get help if they need it. I think that’s a fine idea, Hermione. I’ll certainly look into it.”

Most of the rest of the students present groaned. “That’s what the library is for,” Dean said in mild disgust. 

“The library’s busy lots of the time, and sometimes I just fancy reading in an armchair without enchanted paper broomsticks flying over my head, or shrieks when someone turns a third year’s hair purple,” Hermione pointed out. Dean shrugged- he was usually the one turning the third year’s hair purple.

“It does tie in with an idea I wanted to implement,” Lupin said. “I would like to have a list of people willing to help with queries from younger students about their work- at the moment, a lot of the first years aren’t sure if they can ask for help, or who to ask, beyond Hermione, and she only has so much time. I’ll put some lists up in the common room for people to sign up with the subjects they’re most comfortable with, and if we do a study club, that would be a good time for tutoring.”

“Do we have to?” Ron wanted to know with a wrinkle of his nose. 

Lupin shook his head. “No, not at all. I only want people who want to help: you won’t put enough effort in otherwise. I’m hoping that fourth or fifth years will be willing to help the younger students, and you can help the older ones.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Professor!” Hermione said, eyes shining. “It would mean that people always knew where they could go for help! I have no idea why we haven’t done it before!”

“These things take some organisation to put into place, Hermione, though, hopefully, largely run themselves once established. Professor McGonagall has had rather too many duties as assistant headmistress, I think, to manage it as well. It is no surprise that the Gryffindor students have been left to fend for themselves.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way McGonagall does stuff!” Ron protested hotly. “None of us have died, or anything!”

“No, there have been no deaths,” Lupin admitted carefully. Harriet could see the unspoken point: that the lack of deaths was more by luck than good management. She herself was a case in point of that fact: how many times had she gone sneaking around the castle at night with Professor McGonagall none the wiser? “But the fact remains that only two of the first year students knew where her quarters are, and none how to summon her in case of emergency. Incidentally, what was her preferred method? I haven’t had a chance to ask her.”

Blank looks abounded. “Why would we want to summon her?” Dean wanted to know. 

Lupin frowned. “In case of emergency. What if one of you were taken ill in the night?”

“Erm, hospital wing,” Seamus contributed. 

Lupin looked astounded. “When I was a student, there was a picture of a lion on a rock. If you asked, he would take your message off to his other portrait in the head of house’s rooms. I noticed that the painting was gone, and put the bell pull in as a temporary solution until I could locate it, or another paired portrait.”

“We’ve managed okay up ‘til now,” Ron complained. “We don’t need a babysitter.”

Lupin passed the plate of cakes around again. It seemed to be refilling itself, new cakes popping into existence. “No, you don’t,” the professor agreed. “But I would like to be certain that if a first year contracts dragon pox and shows symptoms in the night, that I could be summoned to assist, and not hear second hand from Madam Pomfrey when the poor child has been alone in the hospital wing for hours.” He sighed deeply. “Another thing: the first years were unaware of any sex education classes planned for them. Have you had any instruction in the matter in your time at the school?”

Ron had gone pink, and Neville was frantically picking at a loose thread on his robes.

“Well, in first year, Madam Pomfrey showed all the girl where the, erm, feminine supplies were. And the… contraceptive potions,” Hermione piped up.

“I see,” Lupin replied mildly. “Anything else?”

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Parvati spoke up quietly. “Not like other houses, Sir,” she volunteered. “My twin, Padma… she told me that the first and second years had evening lessons, once a term, about stuff like that. We never did.”

“Not even the muggle-borns?” the defence professor pressed gently. The muggle-borns present shook their heads.

He visibly slumped. “I’ll organise something,” he promised. “Leaving students without a safe space to learn about their sexuality is… dangerous. Does anyone have suggestions these sorts of lessons?”

The seventh years were silent, staring at each other, or carefully avoiding eye contact, depending on the person. Lupin waited patiently, taking a bit of his cake. Eventually, Harriet grew bored of the silence. “It’s stupid how much I didn’t know, when I found out I was a girl,” she said. “How much I still don’t really know. I think it’s a good idea, and boys and girls should be together. It might be more embarrassing, but boys should know more about what goes on with girls, and the other way round. It’s all such a big part of wizarding life, and yet it’s all kept so quiet. And maybe we could ask questions anonymously, so no one gets made fun of for not knowing something.”

“I don’t think the first years need to know the same kind of things as say, the fifth years, though,” Faye put forward boldly. “To be honest, some of the stuff people get up to by in the upper years… it’s not fit for first year ears.” 

Harriet looked down studiously- this was not a great conversation to be having when she could feel the wetness from her own overstimulated body seeping into her knickers. Faye’s contribution seemed to open the floodgates on the conversation, though. Ron thought that anyone who couldn’t figure it out didn’t deserve to know, but Harriet pointed out that, for the muggle-borns, wizarding sexuality was totally unlike what they’d expected. The hormonal changes, for a start, were far beyond anything that their muggle friends went through.She didn’t think Ron believed her. 

Seamus was all for private rooms for anyone above third year anyway- as he rightly pointed out, it would save a lot of stumbling into awkward situations. Imogen reckoned that that was what bed curtains and silencing spells were for. 

Eventually, Lupin held up his hands to stop them. “Thank you, all of you. I can see that this is a… difficult situation. I appreciate your input, but I think I need to discuss this with Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. I’ll get back to you about it, and the homework club. But, for now, it’s nearly time for dinner. Please, if there’s anything you’d like to discuss with me, my door is always open to any of you.”

There was a chorus of “thanks, professor,” and clinking of cups and glasses as people piled them back on the sideboard on their way out. Lupin touched Harriet’s shoulder. “Hang on a minute,would you?” he asked quietly. “I’d like a word.”

Harriet nodded, and Ron, half on his feet, sat down again, hearing the professor’s instruction. Imogen tugged on his hand, but he just smiled at her. “I’ll see you later, Im,” he promised. 

When it was just Harriet, Ron and Hermione left, Lupin sighed. “Well, I suppose you three do everything together anyway,” he conceded. “You may as well stay.” He turned the bench he was straddling to face Harriet. She shifted uncomfortably at the direct attention.”I wanted to make sure that you, especially, know that I am here to listen if you need me, or act if I can. I know that you have others you can speak to- you have good friends in Ron and Hermione, and I suspect that you have Professor Snape’s ear as well.” Harriet opened her mouth to protest, not wanting to reveal anything Severus wouldn’t want known. Lupin held up a hand with a smile. “You need not say anything. I’m certainly not going to do anything with the information, but I know who your mother’s midwife was. He must have known about you all along, when I, along with the rest of the world, believed you to be male. However, I digress.

“I had hoped that we could take steps to move you back to Gryffindor tower,” Lupin continued. Harriet’s heart seized- there was no way she wanted to be subject to the scrutiny of living in a dormitory. How would she ever see Robin?

“Please,” she squeaked, “I’m happy where I am. I don’t mind.”

Lupin sighed. “I can see it would be impossible to keep you in close proximity to Lavender anyway,” he allowed. “I’m not even sure about the wisdom of having you moved to your own room within the tower. Quite naively, I had thought the antagonism from your house-mates had blown over.”

“It has, really,” Harriet protested. “Lavender and I… well, we just stay away from each other. Everyone else is fine.”

“Are you certain?” Lupin asked seriously. Harriet nodded.

“Excuse me, Professor, Harriet, but that’s not true,” Hermione said softly. Lupin turned so he could see her. She swallowed nervously, and Ron glared daggers at her. “Sorry, Harriet, but it’s not. It’s not just Lavender; most of the house keep their distance. Someone’s been telling the younger students that she’s corrupted by dark magic, and they’ll end up cursed if they spend time with her. Mostly, people think it’s funny, but some of the more gullible are convinced. Dennis Creevey is terrified of her. The older boys openly discuss if sex with her would be like having sex with another man, or if they should do it.”

“But I’ve never offered to have sex with any of them!” Harriet protested.

Ron shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t matter, mate,” he said. “They’re not looking for anything meaningful, just a shag. They don’t really care if you want it or not. I told ‘em you were out of bounds.”

Lupin rubbed his head tiredly. “I’d forgotten how complex and raw teenage sexual politics are,” he admitted. “It does get better, when people marry off.” He yawned, stood. “Go to dinner, you three. Harriet, carry on as you have been- avoid anyone who gives you trouble, but let me know, please. You only have a few months left, then you will have a fresh start.”

“I’ll always be front page news for the  _ Prophet _ ,” she complained bitterly. “I’ll never be free.”

Lupin squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s see what happens,” he suggested. “You might be surprised.”

 


	41. Learning lovers

“What time is it?” Harriet asked sleepily, already half sitting up, with her wand lit in the half light as soon as Robin stumbled through the floo. 

“Almost nine,” Robin said, slipping fully clothed into the bed beside her. “Enjoying a rare Sunday lie in?”

“Suppose so,” Harriet said, flopping back onto the pillows and flicking her wand to pull back the heavy curtains at her windows. The light in the room didn’t improve much: she could see the fog from her comfy nest of blankets. She slipped from the bed and padded to the windows, peering out to the gloom of the grounds to the quidditch pitch. She could see a few little figures on broomsticks, though the visibility was terrible. She hoped Ron would bring the team in if it was too poor: if it was like this next week, the match might be called off. Rain wasn’t enough to call off a quidditch game, but fog or heavy snow meant that there was little chance of actually seeing the snitch, or, far worse, a bludger.

“Come back to bed,” Robin said. “You’ll freeze, standing there.”

She sighed and climbed back into bed with him. He opened his arms, letting her snuggle close. His hair tickled her cheek. “Did you have a nice time?” she asked more from politeness than real interest.

“Mmm, thanks,” he replied. “Bit of a late night.” He kissed the top of her head. “Erm, Harriet?” he said carefully. “I… hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be out next friday night, so I’ll be late on Saturday- probably won’t see you until the evening, after dinner.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be angry,” he said pleadingly. “I’ll only be a few hours later than if I have a Saturday morning shift at the cafe. It’s a friend’s birthday- a really good friend. I know it’s been twice in a short space of time, and I’m sorry, but I can’t just skip out on her birthday. We’re all going to an all nighter at this rock club on Oxford Street.”

“Fine,” Harriet said shortly, lying stiffly against him. 

He huffed out his breath, then rolled, moving quickly, until he was over her, braced on his arms so he didn’t actually put weight on her. She turned her face to the side, not looking at him. “Harriet,” he said firmly. “We can’t keep doing this- going off in a sulk is only going to ruin today. If you’re going to sulk, I’ll just go.”

“If you want,” she said flatly. “After all, your friends are most important.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Harriet, and you know it,” he said through gritted teeth. “We both have lives away from each other, and sometimes those lives happen at inconvenient times.”

A tear trickled down into the pillow. She knew she was being unreasonable: the little voice in the back of her head told her so. She knew he had a really busy life: he worked extra shifts on the days he didn’t see her so he could keep time free. Not many university students would be up and visiting before nine in the morning after a night out, but he did, for her. But the other little voice, the petulant one, complained that she’d been hurt just the day before yesterday, and that he should be fussing over her, not going out with his friends. The same little voice complained of the ache between her legs, the intense need for a touch other than hers which was only really increased by the time she’d spent wearing the odd balls he’d put in her yesterday. “Why can’t you just be  _ here _ ?” she demanded. 

He kissed the ridge of her cheekbone. “I know, kitten,” he soothed.

She looked up at him plaintively. “Why can’t you just fuck me?”

His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight to one side so he could slip a hand down between them. It slid easily beneath the waistband of her pyjamas, and she couldn’t help but groan as he slipped a finger between her swollen pussy lips. “Merlin, you’re wet,” he breathed. “You’re suffering, aren’t you?”

He didn’t even wait for her response before he’d rolled her over, so her back was to him. Almost roughly, he jerked her hips up so she was on her knees. She mewled in protest. “Shush,” he soothed. “Is this okay?” She nodded, and then he was tugging her pyjama bottoms down to her knees. She kicked her feet, flinging them off and leaving her bare on the bottom half. “Good girl,” he praised softly, slipping his hands up her bedtime t-shirt to firmly cup her breasts. 

She pressed her hips out to him. There was no preamble, no foreplay. He had fumbled his jeans off in moments, and the heavy head of his cock nudged against her lips, already slightly slick and spreading with arousal and her position. She arched her hips up like a beast in heat, spreading her legs, and the head pushed in with only the slightest of resistance. They groaned in almost perfect unison, Harriet enjoying the stretching fill of that first few seconds of penetration, and Robin the clinging warmth of her body, tighter through the lack of preparation. 

It wasn’t tender; it was certainly the roughest lovemaking Harriet had known. Robin gripped her hips tight, setting a brutal pace, and all she could do was go along for the ride. The angle of her hips let him sink deep into her, and she panted and moaned as he touched parts of her inside that she was sure he’d never touched before. “More,” she gasped. The fingers of his right hand dug into her hipbones bruisingly hard, but his left twined around her hip, pressing on the bundle of her clit. She cried out as their rocking motion dragged her across his hand again and again, and her lower belly clenched tight in anticipation. A curl of his fingers, hitting that sensitive spot, and she cried out, clamping down around him. Vaguely, she heard his grunt above her. A few more strokes, and he stilled above her. She was almost certain that she felt the spurt of his come, the spreading warmth; but was that just the heat of her own climax?

Her legs dropped from beneath her, and she slipped to the bed on her stomach. The warmth of his body covered his back as he carefully lowered himself over her, his cock still lodged inside her, softening, but still a fill. “You could have just asked,” he murmured, stirring the hair at the back of her neck with his breath. He rolled off her, letting her curl up on her side, facing him.

“I thought you’d think I was being pathetic,” she said quietly.

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes a little longer than would be considered a blink. “No, kitten,” he said. “I know how you feel. All of your classmates will too- they’ve been here too.”

“Then why is it that I never noticed it?” she riposted. “Why weren’t they shagging in the common room?”

He sighed deeply. “Because, like you, they have some modicum of self-control. You weren’t jumping me the moment I got here- you’re just grumpy and irritable because you need sex. Nothing more.” He stroked her cheek. “I’m sorry we couldn’t deal with it sooner. I suppose I should be grateful: if you’re this desperate, you’re probably not sleeping with anyone else.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “How could you think that?”

“Hush, kitten. I don’t,” he assured her. “Tell you what- ask a house elf for some breakfast, go and clean up, and we’ll have breakfast in bed, okay?”

“Why don’t you ask for breakfast?” she grumbled. 

He smiled weakly. “Because I can’t summon a house elf,” he explained patiently. “I’m not a resident of the castle.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling stupid. She’d never really thought about why the house elves came when you called.

Dobby was only too delighted to bring them breakfast, though he looked at Robin with narrowed eyes. “Is Mistress Harriet alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Dobby,” she assured him. “Robin’s my guest- I want him here. Promise.”

The overly-loyal house elf still looked suspicious. “Dobby, ask Maltie about Robin,” Robin suggested. “He can vouch for me.”

Slightly mollified, Dobby popped back to the kitchens, and Harriet went to visit the loo. By the time she got back, Dobby and Maltie were each delivering groaning trays to the coffee table by the fireside. Harriet’s blood replenishing potion was prominent, the vial resting inside her empty goblet. She swallowed it with a grimace. 

“So,” Robin began, finishing off his dish of porridge whilst Harriet munched a danish pastry, “What did you think of your sex toy adventure yesterday?”

Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth and flushed. She glanced up under her eyelashes to see Robin calmly putting his bowl down and selecting a handful of strawberries. “How can you just talk about, about… stuff so casually?” she demanded.

He just smiled. “Why be coy about it?” he asked. “We’re alone, in private… if we can’t discuss it with each other, then who can we discuss it with?”

She shrugged a single shoulder. “I dunno.”

“So then,” he pressed, “did you like it?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, still not looking at him. 

“Okay,” he said. “Academic discussion time. What were your views on the book? What was it? BDSM and magic, or some such?”

Harriet took a deep breath. This was what she’d wanted to tell him. “I overreacted,” she admitted. “I thought the spanking thing was, I don’t know, abusive, but it’s not. Not what you were thinking about- it’s just something I hadn’t heard of before. It’s okay that you… you want to do that. I… I wouldn’t mind trying it.”

“Come here,” Robin said with a smile. Hesitantly, Harriet uncurled herself from her chair and went around the table to him. Was he going to do it now? To… to spank her? Why was the word hard to say in her mind?

He reached out to pull her into his lap, and she squeaked, somewhat surprised to find herself right way up and snuggled in his arms instead of bottom-up and having her pyjama bottoms pulled down again. He chucked, dipping his head to kiss her cheek, the silk of his hair brushing her neck. “Did you think I was going to spank you?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she admitted sheepishly.

He grinned. “Perhaps I should tell you off for sulking earlier. Or perhaps I should reward you for going and finding out about spanking instead of just being scared.”

“Reward me?” she asked, frowning up at him. 

He tapped the end of her nose playfully. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure I can find some things that you’d enjoy. Was there anything you found interesting in that book?”

She blushed, tipping her face down into the soft black jumper he wore. “I suppose,” she whispered. 

He wrapped his arms tighter around her. “I won’t think worse of you for anything you’re interested in,” he promised. “Well, certainly not anything in that book. If you said that you wanted to have threesomes with centaurs, I might find it a bit… concerning.”

“Threesomes with centaurs?” she demanded, her embarrassment almost forgotten in that moment. “Why on earth would I want to? And why would you be concerned?”

“Have you seen the size of the equipment on those centaurs?” he asked incredulously. “The phrase ‘hung like a horse’ came from somewhere, you know. And I’d be concerned because, well, double penetration by centaurs sounds like it would be painful. Plus, the logistics seem difficult- where would all the legs go?”

She snorted with laughter at the ridiculous image. “I think maybe I’ll stick with you,” she said with a grin.

“Thank you,” he replied, aiming for a serious expression, but not quite managing to arrange his face properly. “So, how about you tell me what interested you in that book, and I’ll tell you what interested me. Maybe it matches up.”

“Where is the book?” Harriet asked, angling for time. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Robin that he wouldn’t think badly of her, it was just… embarrassing to talk about. “I don’t think I brought it back here with me.”

Robin groaned. “Must still be in my room,” he said. “D’you want me to grab it and come back here, or are you coming too?” Well, Harriet mused, he wasn’t letting her get away with not talking about it.

“Let’s both go,” Harriet suggested. “I like cuddling on those giant cushions.”

“Honestly,” Robin grumbled good-naturedly. “I reckon you’re only with me for my soft furnishings.”

“Something like that,” Harriet agreed. “Think your dad’ll mind if I’m still in pyjamas? I can’t be bothered to get changed.”

Robin offered her the pot of floo powder first. “Nah, just say you’ve been ill if he makes a face,” he advised. “You know,” he said as she took a pinch of the powder, “I don’t even know where your room is. I just floo.”

She smiled up at him. “Off the corridor to the left of the great hall, second portrait along,” she said before stepping through the fireplace. 

He followed her quickly, almost falling over her since she hadn’t moved out of the way quite quickly enough. “The one of the mermaid?” he asked, grinning down into her face as she steadied him with hands around his waist. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. She hadn’t expected him to know it, but then again, he’d spent his school holidays roaming the castle. He might know almost as much as she did about it, and without the help of the Marauders’ map. He took her hand in his larger one to lead her through to his bedroom. She quickly settled into the nest of soft cushions. Robin fetched the book from his bedside table, and brought his throw blanket. She smiled gratefully: she felt much better, but still cold.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and opened the book on his knee, to the contents page. “D’you want to tell me, or point?” he asked with a grin.

“You go first,” Harriet said.

“Okay,” he agreed amiably. “Well, you know I’ve thought about spanking you. I’m also interested in some of what they term ‘creative punishment’- a lot of the suggestions are spell based, but some are potions. Sensitising solutions, or even a mild swelling solution to make the genitalia fill with blood, for example. That, and…” his voice finally trembled with a hint of nerves, “I like the idea of… what was it, that he called it? Ah, yes, here. Forced pleasure. Basically making you come over and over. I love seeing your orgasm, your pleasure.”

Well, that wasn’t what she expected. Not at all. Not that she’d really known what to expect in the first place. She nipped at her lower lip, her breath catching as she had a sudden vision of herself, legs spread, writhing as he made her come with his fingers, his tongue, his cock, again and again. Robin kissed the top of her head. “What about you?”

“I… erm… well, when I was… I mean, last year…”

He interrupted her. He passed the book onto her lap. “Show me, if it’s easier.” Slowly, she flipped back to the contents page and pointed at  _ ‘Chapter five: preparing for sodomy’ _ with a trembling finger. 

“You thought you were a gay man, didn’t you?” he asked softly after a moment’s thought. “ Of course it’s something you’ve thought about… Most of the time, I forget that you lived as male, for most of your life.” He kissed her again, in just the same spot as before, over her parting. “We can certainly try that, my love. It would be a new experience for me as well.”

“Really?” she said looking up at him in surprise. She thought he’d done everything. 

“Yes,” he said with a little smile. “It’s something a lot of girls are afraid of, I’m told. It wasn’t something I wanted to bring up and force someone into.”

She looked up at him with a smile. Something they could try together, something where she wouldn’t just be learning from him. “I’d like that,” she said quietly. 

“Well, I think we should build up to that,” he said quietly. “After all, there’s a whole chapter on preparation, which I haven’t even read, because I didn’t think you’d be interested. To begin with, how about trying something I’m familiar with, at least?”

“What?” she asked.

His voice dropped low as he spoke into her ear. “How do you feel about showing me how your pretty bottom looks over my knee, so I don’t just have to imagine it?”

She swallowed, a little nervous. No, she told herself firmly. This was Robin. Robin wasn’t going to hurt her, and he’d stop if she asked. Maybe she’d even like it. “Okay,” she agreed as firmly as she could manage.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised softly. Somehow. she didn’t feel patronised when he said it, but she was sure that if anyone else- Ron, or Lupin, or Dumbledore, said she was a ‘good girl’, she’d fume. He stood and offered her a hand. Perhaps an odd gesture for a man who intended to spank her bare bottom, she mused, but then, she didn’t really know the protocols for this situation. She let him pull her up.

He settled himself on the edge of the bed. “Pyjamas off, Harriet,” he said, being as firm as he could manage. 

“Just me?” she asked nervously.

“Just you,” he replied. His jeans were holding his cock in restraint: it had hardened despite having fucked her not two hours ago. His heart hammered as he watched her slowly, carefully, remove her nightclothes, nibbling on her lip again. “Come over here,” he murmured when she stood before him, naked, trying to resist the urge to cover herself. Her blush had spread down to flush her neck. Soon, he hoped her bottom would be pink too. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had to be very gentle. She still wasn’t better, not completely. He had to remember her injuries. “Other side, Harriet,” he said as she stepped up to his right side. “I’m left handed: I need your bottom on my left.”

She scrambled to his left quickly, cursing her own stupidity. She should have thought of that. Trying to suppress the tremble in her muscles, she laid across his lap in the way she’d seen herself in his fantasy. Merlin, she felt exposed! “Good girl,” he murmured again, stroking one side of her back to avoid her new scar. He used firm strokes, going a little lower each time until he was stroking across the rounds of her bottom. She’d relaxed over him, no longer holding herself rigid but flopped almost bonelessly down over his knee. “You need to tell me if you need me to stop okay, Harriet?” he said seriously.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly. He raised his hand.

She squeaked at the first spank. Not because it hurt: there was a slight sting, but nothing like what she’d dreaded, but because the noise of his palm hitting her soft flesh had surprised her. “You okay?” Robin asked gently. When he was satisfied by her response, he struck again, over the other cheek. She flinched again, but less this time. Her bottom tightened against the unfamiliar feeling, and he took a moment to stroke the flesh again . The break didn’t last long though.

After a few more spanks, he looked down in satisfaction at the delicate blush on the two highest points of her buttocks. He was trying not to hit the more tender parts: the crease between her bottom and her thighs was territory for another time, he thought, if she enjoyed this. Tentatively, he slipped a finger down to the folds of her pussy, just visible in the shadowed cleft between her legs. To his relief, it slid between her lips easily, passage made easy by the slickness of her arousal. She sucked in a breath, and he had to stop himself doing the same in appreciation. To know that she reacted to him like this, even doing something she’d been apprehensive about. “You’re wet for me, kitten,” he murmured. She just moaned in response as he slipped a fingertip just into her entrance, teasing the tender flesh there. 

He withdrew his hand and landed five more quick spanks to her pinkening bottom. He stopped as soon as her skin began darkening beyond a faint blush. She was pale-skinned here, in a place that never saw sunlight, but he didn’t want to hurt her, just arouse her, and in that he’d succeeded. He pushed his hand down again, persuading her to spread her thighs a little, and he went for her pussy in earnest, his practiced fingers quickly finding her clit as his thumb plugged her pussy entrance. .

He was pleased that she wasn’t a screamer: he knew his dad was somewhere nearby, probably in his lab. Harriet moaned low in her throat as he stroked over her slick folds, shuddering a little. Cursing under his breath, he lifted her off his lap and laid her tender bottom onto the soft bedclothes.

For the second time that day, he made love without properly removing his clothes. 

 


	42. And on the seventh day, the wizards invented Google maps...

Robin rolled off the bed and reached for his jeans and underwear. Harriet protested without proper words, feeling quite sated for the first time in a couple of weeks after their more tender lovemaking. He smiled to remember her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To get a drink,” he said, softly. “Stay there, I’ll bring it back.” He urged her under the rumpled bedding, not wanting her to get too cold.

He opened the door, but stopped short when he heard his father’s voice from the main room. 

“I’m not a kind man, Miss Granger,” Severus drawled silkily. 

Harriet sat up. “What?” she asked, but Robin held up a hand to silence her. She frowned. Why was Hermione here?

“I know that, Sir,” her friend’s voice came, soft. 

“Do you really?” Severus asked. Harriet was pulling on her pyjamas again, ignoring the sticky feeling of the mixture of Robin’s come and her arousal slipping onto her upper thigh.

Robin caught her hand as she ghosted past him, mouthing ‘no’ as she looked back at him with a frown. He shook his head for good measure, but she ignored him. Concentrating she cast a spell they’d learnt in Charms just last week, a sort of periscope effect. She’d been delighted by the potential uses in defence at the time, but her motives were less pure now.

Severus lounged in his high-backed armchair, and Hermione stood before him, twisting her hands nervously before her. “I would never suspect you of being a typically ‘nice’ lover,” she admitted. Harriet bit back a gasp. Lover?

“I fear, Miss Granger, that my interests would not… suit your personality.”

“You might be surprised, Sir,” Hermione replied boldly. 

Severus regarded her from beneath hooded eyes. “Perhaps we should test the theory,” he suggested.

Harriet gasped as Robin yanked her back into the room. Her concentration broke, and with it, her spell. Robin closed the heavy dungeon door quietly. “What’s wrong with you?” he hissed. “What did you cast?”

“Nothing,” she defended hotly. “Well, not nothing. It’s a charm I learnt, it lets you see around a corner as if you were there.”

“That was private,” Robin informed her, pushing a hand through the mussed strands of his hair. “We shouldn’t have listened, and you shouldn’t have watched!”

“She’s my friend!” Harriet replied.

Robin plonked down on the edge of the bed. “Would you like it if they’d heard what we just did? Because that conversation sounded just as private to me.”

Harriet didn’t like to admit it, but he was kind of right. “What do you think he meant, that his interests wouldn’t suit her?” she asked, sitting beside him.

Robin sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t ask about my dad’s sexual fetishes as a matter of routine. Look, we never heard that, okay? You never saw that.”

“Okay,” Harriet said, her mind already whirring into overdrive to plan how she could get the whole story out of Hermione. Robin wouldn’ be happy with that, though she couldn’t figure out how he wasn’t curious. Severus, suddenly talking about being a  _ lover _ to a seventeen year old girl? His student, no less? It didn’t sound like cautious Severus… nor cautious Hermione. “So, what do we do now?” she asked. “Now that we’re stuck here?” She clambered into his lap, twining her arms around his neck. 

He returned her kiss, but made no further attempt to join in her game of seduction. “I can’t imagine they’ll be there that long,” he said. “Let’s just read for a bit or something.”

She let out a huff of gentle frustration. He looked down at her with a grin. “I’m male, Harriet. I do need some recovery time! Plus… I can’ say hearing my dad talk about what kind of lover his is with your friend has put me in the mood. I don’t know about you.”

She slid off his lap with a sigh. “I don’t have any of my books with me,” she grumbled.

He waved his hand at his bookshelves. “Help yourself. The bottom shelf’s all kids books, though I’d avoid the top one unless you like reading in Latin or Greek. There’s always your, ahem, library book, as well.”

She glared at him and stood before his book collection. True to his words, the top shelf was incomprehensible, and the two below it were English translations of Classical texts, or dry-looking academic tomes on the texts. Given her recent issues with one of his plays in English translation, she didn’t fancy attacking a discussion on Plato’s  _ Gorgias _ . She eventually found herself on the lowest shelves. Some of the names there were familiar- t _ he Hobbit _ had been read at primary school, and Dudley had owned all the Enid Blyton adventure series, though he’d never read them- she eventually had, when she was moved from the cupboard under the stairs to Dudley’s second bedroom. She considered picking up her favourite, the  _ Valley of Adventure _ , but instead, she somehow ended up with a leather bound book of wizarding fairytales. She’d never read any wizarding children’s stories. She settled down by the fire to read  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _ . 

Robin looked up from his desk, where he was busy scribbling on a muggle ruled notepad and smiled at her. “Fancy calling a house elf for some tea and a sandwich or something?” he asked.

Maltie, of course was only too happy to oblige. 

Harriet had fallen asleep on the cushions by mid afternoon. Robin let her sleep on for a few hours, but as it drew close to dinnertime, he sprawled on the floor next to her, gently kissing her forehead and stroking her cheek to wake her. “Hello, Kitten,” he murmured as she blinked up at him. “You need to get ready for dinner, or your friends will worry,” he explained. 

“Will you be here afterwards?” she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep. 

He shook his head with a little smile. “You should spend at least a little while with your friends, and you need a good night’s sleep.”

“But I miss you,” she said sulkily, sitting up. He’d covered her up with the blanket again, she noticed. 

He stroked her hair softly. “I miss you too,” he replied. “But I’ll see you in the next couple of days, okay? You just make sure you rest, and take your potions. If you get desperate again, wear your balls if they helped.”

She nodded glumly, and got to her feet. Robin stood too, and she nestled into his chest. He couldn’t resist wrapping his arms around her and kissing her again. “Go on, kitten,” he murmured. “Go and have a shower and put some clean clothes on. Have some dinner. Spend a couple of hours with your friends.”

Eventually, of course, Harriet had to go. She did feel better after a shower- less ill, and she hadn’t really realised how grubby and sticky she was after not having washed following her romps in bed with Robin. There was also a plan growing in her head that she knew Ron would want in on.

The great hall seemed loud after spending the day in quiet seclusion with Robin. It was Ron’s flaming hair that always made him easier to find, and this time was no different. She squeezed herself between Ron and a third year who was busy picking all the carrots out his vegetable medley with some disgust.

Ron clapped her on the back in greeting. “Hey,” Hermione said with a smile.

“Erm, hey,” Harriet replied, finding that it was suddenly quite difficult to look at Hermione. Had she really witnessed her friend and Severus that morning, or was it some very vivid product of her imagination? Potion-induced madness, perhaps? She filled her plate.

“Were you resting today?” Hermione asked.

“Oh. Erm. Yeah,” Harriet said haltingly.

Ron elbowed her in the side. “You call that rest?”

“Ron!” Imogen cried. Harriet started. She hadn’t even realised that Imogen was sitting on Ron’s other side, nor that the pair were holding hands under the table. She’d never known them sit together for meals before. It must be serious.  A lump rose in her throat. She wished she could sit with Robin in the great hall and hold his hand.

“Ron, don’t be silly. I’m sure Harriet spent most of the day asleep,” Hermione countered. She meant to kick Ron under the table, but somehow got Harriet’s ankle instead. Harriet yelped.

“Oh, keep your big secret,” Imogen said softly. “It’s obvious there’s something going on: there’s no need to pretend everything’s normal.”

“Thanks, Imogen,” Harriet said gratefully. “It’s not that I don’t trust you… it’s just something that involves other people.”

Imogen held up her free hand, fork and all. “It’s fine. I’m curious, but I’ll live.”

With relief, Harriet turned Ron’s attention to quidditch, an easy enough task. The blow-by blow account of this morning’s practice quite happily filled the rest of the meal. It was only after the last of the pudding dishes had vanished that Harriet leaned closer to Ron, Imogen and Hermione deep in their own conversation. “Hey,” she whispered, “How’d you fancy a bit of an expedition on Friday?”

Ron’s face lit up. “Where?” he asked.

Harriet smiled in what she hoped was an enigmatic manner. “Somewhere we’ve never been before. We need to be in private to discuss it, though,” she said. “My room?”

Ron grinned. He wrapped an arm around Imogen’s shoulders. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay, Im?” he said. “Come up to my dorm later, yeah?”

She slapped his hand away playfully. “Ron Weasley, you’re insatiable!” she laughed, and wandered off to find Faye. She was possibly the most good-natured girl Harriet had even known- she certainly had never seen Imogen fly into fits of rage like Lavender, or jealousy like Faye, who’d once had a stand up confrontation that almost came to wands with a fifth year she thought had designs on her boyfriend. Imogen, though, seemed happy to have Ron disappearing off to another girl’s private room. Harriet shook her head. Perhaps she should aim to be more like Imogen: more trusting and obliging of Robin’s nights out. But though she didn’t think Robin was off sleeping with someone else, and she certainly wasn’t sleeping with Ron, she did think Imogen a bit… naive.

Hermione joined Ron and Harriet. “What’s the plan?” she asked. “Common room? Library?”

“Ron and I were going to go and, erm, talk about quidditch,” Harriet said, not wanting to admit her plan to Hermione. What if she told Severus? “In my room.”

“I’ll come too,” Hermione said breezily. “I like the quiet.”

“It’ll be really boring,” Harriet protested.

Ron elbowed her in the ribs again. “Don’t be silly,” he told her. “Hermione’s always a good brain if you’re planning something.”

Harriet sighed. “So, what were you up to today, Hermione?” she asked. “Ron was playing quidditch, I was, erm, asleep…”

“Oh I was in the library,” Hermione said as Harriet unlocked her room. 

“No you weren’t,” Ron said. “I looked for you after practice. Couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Well, you couldn’t have looked very hard, Ron,” she huffed. “I was there all morning.”

Ron shrugged, throwing himself into Harriet’s armchair. “What’s the plan, Harriet?”

Hermione’s ears almost visibly pricked, and her head came up. “What are you two up to?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. 

“Dunno yet. Harriet hasn’t said,” Ron said. “So, go on. Spill.”

Harriet glanced at Hermione. Oh well. Maybe Hermione had been rebuffed by Severus. “Well,” she began, “I thought I fancied a trip out.”

“Where to?” Hermione asked suspiciously. “Because I don’t think we’re talking Honeydukes’ here, are we?”

Harriet looked into the fire. She wondered if Robin really had gone home. Maybe he was out with his friends right now. Maybe he was with another girl… was that why he didn’t want her about outside of Hogwarts? “To Manchester,” she admitted quietly.

Hermione spluttered. Ron wrinkled his nose. “Manchester?” he asked incredulously. “Why?”

“Erm, well, if I go to the Wizarding colleges, I’ll be living near there. I wanted to see what it’s like.”

Hermione was shaking her head. “You’re not so great at keeping secrets. You never have been. That’s a rubbish reason. It’s because Robin lives in Manchester. But why take us along?”

There was silence for a few moments as Harriet decided what to do. Hermione was close the the mark anyway. She could just go alone, but at least some of the fear for her safety had gotten through to her, even if she thought it was overblown. She’d prefer company, and so much the better when the company was handy with their wands. “Okay,” she finally granted. “Robin’s going out with his friends to a club on Friday night. I want to go.”

“You’re not eighteen,” Hermione pointed out, pragmatic as usual. “You can’t get into a muggle club.”

Harriet shrugged. “That’s what the invisibility cloak’s for.”

“I’m up for it,” Ron agreed. “Could be fun. Apparate there, have a mooch about… even a muggle club’s better than Friday night doing Transfiguration homework.”

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped. “Don’t encourage her!” She turned back to Harriet. “Manchester’s a long way to apparate. You don’t even really know it. And do you even know where to find the club? It’s a city, it’s not like there’s just going to be one.”

“It’s on Oxford Street,” Harriet replied promptly. “I do know Manchester’s not some little village, you know. Are you coming, or not?”

Hermione squirmed in her chair. On one hand, she wanted to keep Harriet and Ron out of trouble. She knew they wouldn’t be dissuaded. On the other hand, Severus would think the worse of her for going along with this harebrained scheme. “Not,” she said eventually. “Just… be careful.”

Harriet narrowed her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone,” she bargained. “Not Lupin, or McGonagall, or even Severus. Especially not Severus.”

Hermione squirmed some more. “Why would I tell Professor Snape?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

“You might,” was all Harriet would say on the matter. “Promise me you won’t say anything?”

Hermione grudgingly promised. They were idiots, but they weren’t stupid. If a future auror and a prospective university student in defence couldn’t look after themselves, no one could.

It was a quick trip to the library to fetch an atlas of the United Kingdom. It was a Wizarding version, showing not only muggle towns and roads and the like, but also wizarding areas, like Diagon Alley. Even better, if you used the right spell, it brought up an image of the street, floating ghost-like above the book. Hermione, the fount of all knowledge, seemed to momentarily forget her unhappiness with the plan in delight at showing them the atlas. 

Ron prodded his wand along Oxford Road. He laughed aloud. “Well, you won’t have to look very hard,” he said, indicating the queue of black clad, pierced and long-haired people outside a building. “That looks like your place. Jillys, I think it says above the door. So, Friday, you said? Should be easy enough, not like there’s anything we’ll be missed from on Friday night.”

Hermione sighed. She almost wished she hadn’t promised not to tell anyone. She just hoped none of the teachers ever realised she was aware of the scheme if it all came to grief.

  
  
  



	43. Don't talk to Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late on posting this chapter, but it's a big exciting one!  
> In addition to the usual implied 'I don't own Potter, or I'd be very rich', I also can't lay claim to having written the song in this chapter. It's 'Don't talk to Strangers' by Dio, and if I had that singing voice, I could probably also be very rich!  
> I hope you enjoy, and, as always, reviews are much appreciated!

“What do you call this, Mr. Weasley?” Severus asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ron looked up at Severus. “It’s… it’s a cauldron cake, Professor.”

“I can see that, Weasley.”

“Well, why did you ask, then?” Ron asked.

There was a collective intake of breath at Ron’s stupidity. “This foodstuff has no place in my potions classroom,” Severus said, his voice low and dangerous. “Despite being named for a cauldron, this confectionary does not form a part of any potion of which I am aware. Detention, Weasley. Tomorrow. Seven o’clock, and plan to stay until curfew.”

“But, Professor,” Ron wheedled.

“No!” Snape snapped. “Unless you wish to also spend your entire weekend in detention, I recommend silence.”

Ron wisely shut up.Harriet had to bite back a groan. At least he wasn’t in detention for the match on Sunday- Harriet still didn’t know if she’d be allowed to play or not, and trying to replace a keeper as well as a seeker would have been a disaster. “Why?” she asked Ron, as soon as they were out of the classroom. “Why on earth did you have to try to eat a cauldron cake in Snape’s classroom?”

“I was hungry!” Ron retorted.

“Any other teacher, and they’d have just told you off. You just had to get detention though, didn’t you?” If Ron was in detention until curfew, it would be noticed if he sauntered off to Harriet’s room instead of going back to Gryffindor tower.

“I’m sorry!” Ron snapped, not sounding all so terribly apologetic. “But it’s not you who has to sit in detention with Snape!”

“I suppose you can’t go off on your little adventure tomorrow night, then,” Hermione said. She tried to sound sorry, but she couldn’t entirely disguise her satisfaction with the situation. Harriet huffed.

She did think about abandoning the entire plan. Really, she did. But they’d talked about it, planned it, and it was so simple, really. She didn’t need Ron to protect her: she was perfectly handy with a wand. She could apparate to Manchester: the atlas in the library had even given convenient quiet streets for apparition, and there was a properly warded, muggle-proof apparition point not far from the club. With the help of the cloak, getting in should be easy.

She’d never been in a muggle nightclub, or a wizarding one, for that matter, so she had no idea what it would actually be like. They served alcohol, she knew, and played music, and people danced. She presumed there might be lots of people there, but it certainly hadn’t looked like it could be a big building from the atlas. It couldn’t be too hard to find Robin, and hopefully it would be busy enough that she could hide from him if she decided that she didn’t want him to know she was there. Like if she saw him with another girl…

She shook her head a little to get rid of that image. She really, really hoped Robin didn’t have another girlfriend or two on the side. She supposed she’d find out tomorrow.

Friday dragged. It was a good job that Lupin let her sit out of the practical Defence work, because she was vague and jumpy. Instead, she worked on interview preparation for the Wizarding colleges whilst disarming spells shot across the other side of the classroom. It became possibly worse when Ron traipsed off to detention with Snape, and Harriet was left trying to do some work in Hermione’s presence, trying to look normal. Both Hermione and Ron thought the plan abandoned now.

At nine, Harriet begged an early night and returned to her room. She wondered briefly what Ron was doing, sequestered away with Severus. Most likely cleaning cauldrons. It always seemed to be scrubbing cauldrons.

She stood in front of her wardrobe wondering what one wore to a club. She had a vague feeling that it was supposed to be skimpy, at least if you were a girl. For a boy… she shook her head. She couldn’t pass as a boy now, not without judicious use of polyjuice or a previously undiscovered talent as a metamorphmagus. Eventually, at the back of the the cupboard, she found a short denim skirt Hermione had somehow talked her into buying, and pulled a tight-ish black t-shirt over her head. She had no idea what to do with her hair, so she left it loose.

Her legs were goosebumped even in her room, and she was convinced if she bent over, her knickers would show. Tights it was then. She just hoped it didn’t make her look too much like a schoolgirl. She examined herself critically in the mirror for a few moments. Something was missing.

Makeup. Girls wore makeup, didn’t they? Muggle girls, older girls. She didn’t own any makeup, but she knew colour changing charms, and transfiguration. She managed a dark red for her lips, a charm that should last a few hours. It turned out that eyelashes were rather more difficult, being so small and numerous, but a painstaking ten minutes lengthened them a little- they were already as black as her hair, so colour changing wasn’t necessary.

Realising that it was now almost ten o’clock, she shrouded herself in her cloak and let herself out of her room. She and Ron had decided it would be easiest to apparate by using the tunnel that led to Hogsmeade: certainly easier than trying to leave through the entrance hall after curfew.

She hadn’t quite anticipated just how alone she’d feel following the way to the basement of Honeydukes’. It was always the trio, or her and Ron, if whatever they were doing was too rule-breaking to even tell Hermione. She was usually there too, though, trying her hardest to keep them out of the trouble they seemed to tumble into at the slightest provocation. She drew her invisibility cloak around her tighter, even here, alone in the darkness with only her wand tip to light her way.

It seemed to take an interminably long time to reach the end of the tunnel, and she’d almost considered turning back. But no. This was no terrifying confrontation with Voldemort, this was just an adventure. It only felt this way because she was in a dark tunnel, she decided. She’d be fine, excited even, when she was around other people.

Eventually, she came to the trapdoor leading into Honeydukes’ basement. She’d considered apparating sooner, but she wanted to be far enough from the school that she couldn’t trip the wards and possibly warn the teachers someone had tried to apparate. She pulled the cloak from her shoulders, tucking it into her bag. She didn’t want to risk being on a possibly busy street whilst invisible. People tended to bump into things they couldn’t see. Taking a breath and concentrating on the location of the apparition point just behind Oxford Road Station, she whirled.

She was good at apparition. She’d never splinched at all during practice; she’d had full marks on her test. That didn’t mean she liked it. It was a bit better than side-along, she supposed, because you felt a little more in control, but she still stumbled when the pressure of magical travel faded, leaving her slightly breathless. Eyes closed, she leaned against the rough brick wall for a few moments until the dizziness faded.

She’d just straightened when a trio of giggling witches apparated right next to her, almost knocking her off her feet again. “Oops, sorry!” one said with a chuckle, steadying her with a hand around her upper arm.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, and followed them out of the little alley, emerging to the side of the muggle train station, the entrance to the apparition point giving off the funny, fuzzy, not quite there impression of something hidden to non-magical eyes.

It was dark, but the road was well lit, bustling even at this time of night. Perhaps especially at this time of night, as light and noise and people spilled from pubs and bars. Harriet reached up to make sure her fringe covered her scar completely: the three witches apparating in had reminded her she wasn’t the only one here who wasn’t a muggle, although, oddly, she hadn’t really considered this.

It didn’t take long to find the entrance to the club Ron had spotted in the atlas. It wasn’t so busy as it had looked then, with only a few people milling about in front: Harriet wondered how the atlas worked. Was it in real time, or at some fixed point in time? She ducked into a doorway to slip her cloak on, following a pair of black-clad men in. The doorman nodded them through, and of course, didn’t even see Harriet. Once inside, she bundled the cloak and shoved it into the little handbag Hermione had given her for Christmas, complete with an undetectable extending charm in place.

She looked around the cavernous room. It was darker than she had expected, and noisier; the music was loud and utterly unfamiliar.

Strangely, it was also less busy than she’s expected. Yes, there were people dancing to the music. People wandered between the rooms, and she followed, trying to blend in. She was starting to make sense of the snippets of music as she went: sometimes heavier, sometimes melodic in a way she wouldn’t have expected of a genre called ‘rock’. Music had never really been part of her life. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon viewed almost all music as the root of what they termed ‘hooliganism’, and Dudley was more interested in shooting aliens on his computer than art of any form. Besides the occasional burst of the Weird Sisters, or the ill-fated dancing lessons in fourth year, music wasn’t part of her life at Hogwarts either. She found herself nodding along to a few of the songs as she searched for Robin. Her feet seemed to stick to the floor a little, her shoes slow to peel off the ground.

She was starting to doubt herself a bit. Was this the club he’d meant? Maybe he wouldn’t be here until much later, maybe he had decided not to come out? What if he’d felt bad and gone to Hogwarts to see her, and she was here?”

Another song started as she paused between rooms. She couldn’t quite tell if it was the beat of the music she could hear, or, somehow, her own heartbeat in her ears.

_Don’t talk to strangers_ ,

The music came from everywhere, surrounding her with odd whispers.

_‘Cause they’re only there to do you harm. Don’t write in starlight_ , _cause the words may come out real._

Someone jostled her as they pushed by. She cried out as she pitched forwards, scrabbling. Hands grabbed around her waist to prop her up again.

_Don’t hide in doorways,_

She saw him then, as she jerked against the steadying arm of her helper: Robin, just a flash of his hair and his nose as he turned his head away. He had his arm around a girl’s shoulders. She suddenly felt sick.

“Alright there?” a voice asked from above.

_You may find the key that opens up your soul._

“Yeah, thanks,” she gasped, looking up at the man who’d knocked her. His eyes widened in shock, flicked up to her forehead. She reached up, the sick feeling in her stomach rising as she realised her fringe was knocked aside, her scar visible. She pulled the hair back, hoping vainly that he was just a muggle, that he just thought it an unusual scar... “Potter?” he asked incredulously. His arm was still around her waist. His hand tightened on her waist, fingers digging into her side. She gasped, tried to turn back in the direction of Robin, straining.

_Don’t go to heaven, ‘cause it’s really only hell._

Robin looked up, and the laugh dropped from his face. His eyes were locked on her. He bent to whisper something in the girl’s ear, and took a step towards her, a frown of confusion between his eyes.

_Don’t smell the flowers, they’re an evil drug to make you lose your mind._

“Potter!” her captor snapped, yanking her back around. “What the fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you still at Hogwarts?”

She looked up in confusion again. “Do I know you?” she asked vaguely, hoping that he’d decide she was someone else, just some muggle who happened to have a strange scar.

_Don’t dream of women, ‘cause they’ll only bring you down._

“Oliver Deacon. Ravenclaw, left three years ago.”

“Oh,” Harriet replied, trying to pull away. She remembered him now. He’d been Quidditch captain, a beater. He was big, and strong. He’d also been known as ruthless: a muggleborn who’d had to be the best at everything, be it in the classroom, or the quidditch pitch.

“Oliver,” Robin said, his tone flat and just loud enough to be heard. Harriet let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d never been so glad to hear Robin’s voice before.

“What is it, Brandon?” Oliver asked.

Robin didn’t respond, but his hands were on Harriet’s shoulders, pulling her to him.

“Robin?” a female voice asked, confused. Harriet turned towards her. It was the girl Robin had had his arm around.She was pretty, Harriet noted distantly, the rock in her stomach settling even more firmly as the spike drove into her heart. She was elfin, littler than Harriet, deep red hair perfectly smooth down her back. She was dressed all in black: a corset, and even fishnet tights.

“Carrie, this is Harriet,” Robin said quietly.

Carrie still looked confused. “Your girlfriend? But isn’t she meant to be at school?”

Harriet couldn’t take it in. This girl knew about her? Where had she heard the name Carrie before?

_Feel me, I’m danger, I’m the stranger, and I, I’m darkness, I’m pain_

Harriet tried to pull away from Robin, but he held tight.

Oliver reached out to grab her. “You’re lying, Brandon,” he said. “This can’t be your girlfriend.”

“What’re you doing here, Harriet?” Robin hissed into her ear. It was like she was being tugged from every angle; she couldn’t breathe. She was scrabbling her her wand, but Robin went for her hand, held it in his. “Don’t make a scene,” he told her quietly. “Remember where you are.”

“Let’s take this somewhere quieter,” Oliver said gruffly. “Come on.” He wrenched Harriet away from Robin and she cried out in pain as her arm twisted.

“Ollie, you’re hurting her!” Carrie said. “Let go!” Harriet finally remembered why she knew the name- Robin had mentioned Carrie when he’d broken his wrist. She’d wanted him to go to hospital.

Oliver’s eyes were stormy. “We need to sort this. Now.” He looked around, spotted the door to a cupboard. “ _Alohomora_ ” he hissed, his wand tip just protruding from his sleeve. He shoved Harriet in, his hand connecting firmly with her back, almost sending her flying into a tangle of hoover hoses.

“Hey!” Robin snapped. “Careful! She hurt her back not long ago.” He shoved past Oliver to cradle Harriet to him. “You okay, kitten?”

She nodded. Carrie slipped into the room, and Oliver slammed the door behind him. They all blinked in the sudden light as Oliver illuminated the bulb above them. He quickly cast a silencing charm, meaning that they wouldn’t he heard outside the room, though Harriet doubted you’d hear what went on in a cupboard over the music anyway. At least the spell quietened the little room, reducing the music to a distant, though still audible, level. Harriet’s ears rang in the sudden quiet.

Harriet had her wand firmly in her hand, aimed at Oliver and Carrie. “If you’re a Death Eater, I’m not going without a fight,” she snapped.

Oliver pushed up his long sleeves, showing her his unblemished forearms. “You can put your wand away,” he said gruffly. “But you shouldn’t be here. Why are you here? And how do you know Brandon?”

Harriet had no idea why he was calling Robin ‘Brandon’, but it seemed the least of her worries at the moment. Carrie had used his name, so it wasn’t like he was using a false one. “I told you,” Robin said. “Harriet’s my girlfriend.”

Oliver snorted. “Sorry, that’s not possible. There’s no way you’d know this girl.”

“Hey!” Harriet interjected. “This isn’t your business, okay! Just forget you ever saw me.”

“Shut up, sweetheart. Let the men talk,” Oliver shot back. Harriet gawped at him, her mouth opening and closing. How dare he?

Carrie spoke up. Apparently she wasn’t content to let the menfolk talk. “Why can’t he know her, Oliver? How do you know her anyway?”

“I was at Hogwarts with her. Well, him- she used to be a he. Sorry, Brandon, did you know your girlfriend used to be a bloke?”

“Of course I do, you idiot,” Robin snapped. “And Harriet’s right, this isn’t your business.”

Oliver shrugged. “It’s my business if Harry- sorry, Harriet, Potter is about to be kidnapped by some randomer. For all I know, you’ll take her straight you you-know-who.” Robin glared at him, but repeated the same motion Oliver had used, displaying his pale, unmarked forearms. Oliver snorted, as if he didn’t think that meant much.

Carrie narrowed her eyes at Robin. “You said she went to the same school your dad taught at,” she said, accusatory. “You said that was where you were going every weekend.”

“Oh, fuck,” Robin breathed. “Look, Carrie, this is… it’s complicated.”

“Give over, Brandon. She’s my sister. She knows about magic. The question is, how do you? You weren’t at Hogwarts.”

Harriet wanted more than anything to have never come. She didn’t know what to do. Should she try to stupefy Oliver and Carrie? But Oliver’s wand was still clutched loosely in his hand, like hers. She probably wouldn’t be able to get both of them before he could attack her.

Oliver started to laugh. It wasn't a friendly sound. “Hey, Carrie, what does his dad teach?”

Robin growled. Carrie thought for a second. “Chemistry,” she declared.

“Chemistry… or Potions?” Oliver asked. “How’d Snape keep that quiet?” His grin was wider. “Snape spawned! God, you look just like him, I can’t believe I didn’t notice it earlier. Where’d you go? Durmstrang?”

“Please,” Harriet pleaded. “Can we just forget this?”

Oliver was still laughing, and he patted her on the head, like a child. Harriet growled, lunged for him, wand pointed at his face, but Robin reached out, snatched at her wrist. Her feet tangled in the hoover again, and she fell to the floor.

Robin’s hands were now tightly balled into fists at his sides. “Don’t associate me with _that man_ ,” he hissed, offering Harriet a hand as she scrambled to her feet. “You think I want it known that I’m the son of someone who followed You-Know-Who? Someone that terrible? It’s bad enough that I look like him.”

Harriet blinked in surprise. Robin, speaking like that about Severus? Robin adored Severus. She didn’t understand what was happening.

“Well, you clearly associate with him to have met her,” Oliver pointed out. Carrie was leaning against the wall, watching everything with interest.

Robin smiled, a tight little smile, and he looked more like his father than ever. With an arched eyebrow, he put his hands over Harriet’s ears. She struggled in confusion, clawing at his hands until she realised he was cupping them, so she could still hear. He was just trying to make it look like she couldn’t hear him for Oliver’s benefit. “Wouldn’t you, when the prize is Harriet Potter?” he asked quietly, conspiratorially. “The wealth, the good name… the power of being head of the Potter line?”

Oliver laughed again, and clapped Robin on the shoulder. “I suppose I might,” he agreed, as Robin dropped his hands again, away from Harriet’s ears.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around,” Robin told Oliver. “If it comes out in the Prophet, I’ll know who to blame… and let’s just say that I can probably muster up quite some political force. I’m sure we could come to some kind of mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Understood, Brandon. Well, you know how to get in touch if you ever have any.. need of assistance.”

Robin nodded. “Yeah. Carrie…look,  I’m sorry. I need to get Harriet home.” He leaned forwards, kissed Carrie on the cheek. Harriet felt the heat in her cheeks at the humiliation of Robin so blatantly kissing another girl in front of her. “I hope you have a good birthday. Sorry I couldn’t stay.”

“Oh, I understand,” she said with an impish smile. “I can’t believe you never told me you were magical, though!”

Robin shrugged. “I didn’t know you had a wizard brother,” he pointed out. “Statute of secrecy, and all that.” He gestured to the door with a raised eyebrow, and Oliver unlocked it again.

Robin’s hand was tight around Harriet’s wrist as he dragged her out and through into the biggest room. “Ow!” she cried out as his fingers dug hard into the tender flesh and tendons on the underside.

“Hush,” he snapped, weaving between people. It was busier than it had been when she came. He towed her up the stairs and out into the cold air. Even then, he didn’t stop, striding down the main road. They passed the station, and still they kept going. After a while, they turned down a side street.

Eventually, when it was quiet, he wrenched her around to face him, and only then did he realise she was crying, trying to stifle the tears, angry at her own emotions. If he’d just let her go, she could apparate, but if she did now, she’d take him too.

He sighed. With a shrug, he shed his jacket, swapping hands to make sure he never actually let her go. He knew as well as she that she was likely to run, to apparate. He draped it around her shoulders, his body heat suppressing her shivers. He brushed her tears away with a careful finger. “Why are you here, Harriet?” he asked, trying to gentle his voice.

“I wanted to see you… see you with your friends,” she choked out.

He shook his head. “We need to get you safe. Come on.” He began towing her again, not gripping so hard now. “It’s not so far to my flat.”

“I can apparate back,” she insisted.

“In this state?” He snorted. “You’ll be splinched.”

She wanted to argue: she started to argue, until he shot her a look. She’d seen that look through almost seven years’ worth of Potions lessons: you didn’t argue with it. She just scrambled to keep up with his longer strides. “Why did Oliver call you Brandon?” she asked instead.

Robin shrugged. “Oliver’s the kind of prick who thinks using first names is beneath him.”

“But your name’s Robin Snape…”

He looked down at her, a funny look on his face. “Did you really think that?” he asked, sounding oddly choked.

“Well, yeah…”

Robin shook his head. “My dad didn’t want to be connected to me when I was born, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be connected to a squib. I’ve got my mum’s name- Robin Brandon.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, feeling stupid. She wondered how many other basic things about Robin she didn’t know. “Do you have a middle name?”

“Yeah,” Robin said, wrinkling his nose. They were walking a little slower now, Robin matching his pace to Harriet’s shorter legs. He didn’t seem quite as angry as before. “Christopher.”

“What’s wrong with Christopher?” Harriet wanted to know.

“Nothing, I suppose, as a name. It’s only when you put it with ‘Robin’ that it becomes ridiculous.”

She didn’t respond, utterly confused and feeling more stupid than ever. He stopped dead, looking down at her. “Christopher Robin?” he said. “As in Winnie the Pooh?”

Harriet shook her head blankly, and Robin barked out a laugh. He started walking again. “Seriously?” he asked. “You’ve never read Winnie the Pooh?” Harriet could only shake her head in confusion. “God, you really did have a deprived childhood. My copy’s at Hogwarts. Have a look for it, or I’ll get it for you.”

He finally stopped at the door of a terraced red-brick house, just like all the others on the road. “You have no idea how hard it is to find student digs with a working fireplace,” he grumbled as he fished out his keys. “C’mon.”

The front door opened into a grubby little hallway with a bare bulb providing the only illumination and the stairs creaked as they mounted them. He unlocked another door off the hallway, and ushered her in.

She could see why he preferred to spend time at Hogwarts. This room was cold, and run down, nothing like the opulence of the castle. Nothing matched. It was long and narrow, running the length of the house. Brown curtains were drawn across the bay window at the front, and grey ones at the narrow window at the back.

His double bed filled the front of the room, along with a desk piled high. A little table with two chairs didn’t escape the book piles either. A stereo took up the little bit of room at the side of the desk, CDs piled haphazardly around it. His kitchen comprised of a couple of freestanding cabinets, a tiny fridge and a portable two-ring gas burner. There was a kettle, and a slightly decrepit looking microwave taking up most of the counter space, and no apparent sink. “You live _here_?” she asked.

“Well, it’s no Hogwarts, but it’s pretty hard to explain to your friends that you travel back and forth to a magic castle through the fireplace, so I need somewhere to live.” he said with a grimace, finally letting her go. “Though it turns out that Carrie would have understood.”

“Is Carrie… another girlfriend?”

He arched his eyebrow at her. “You should know better than to think that, Harriet. She’s a friend. A good friend, but I’m not in the habit of polyamory.”

Harriet wasn’t deterred. “Have you slept with her?” she asked.

He flopped down on his bed, patting the space next to him. Harriet resolutely stayed standing. Robin sighed. “A couple of times,” he admitted. “Not since I met you.”

“So she was your girlfriend.”

He growled in frustration, burying his hands in his hair. “No! It wasn’t like that, we were just… enjoying each other. For Merlin’s sake, Harriet, before I met you, I fucked anything that stood still long enough. It’s only been since August that, well, I just haven’t felt the desire to anymore. I only want you. Now, are you going to sit down so we can discuss why you decided to leave Hogwarts in the middle of a night to wander through a strange city?”

She bit her lip. “Erm, is there a loo?” she asked, playing for time to think of a good story. Then again, how could she possibly explain it away?

He nodded curtly to a door to the side of the room. “In there,” he said. “There are anti-apparition wards on this place, by the way, so no point trying.” Harriet nodded, not even knowing if she’d been planning to try to apparate or not. She vanished into the tiny bathroom. Oh well, she mused, at least it was clean, if small: a shower stall, toilet and sink with a mirrored cabinet above. The bathmat was too big to the floor, bunching up around the pedestal of the sink.  

As tempting as it was to hide from everything, it wasn’t going to make anything easier. She resisted the urge to keep washing her hands forever after she’d used the toilet, and went back out to face Robin.


	44. Fallout

“Are you angry?” Harriet asked Robin quietly when she came out of the bathroom. She remained on the far edge of the room, leaning against a kitchen cabinet.

“Yes,” he agreed, looking at her from the bed. In good light, and up close, you could tell that his eyes, like his father’s, were an incredibly dark brown. In poor light though, like dungeon classrooms, or this little bedsit, the pupils and irises blended into a wide pool of pure black: it was as if the pupils had blown, swallowing any colour. He looked… hard. She had thought she was used to his eyes, but they looked different now. “Why, Harriet? Anything could have happened. And I think… I hope that Oliver’ll keep quiet. But you could have been found by Death Eaters. You could have been caught in a club underage, and taken to the police station. You could have got lost, ended up somewhere unsavoury, beaten, even raped. You could have splinched, apparating so far. Why?”

Harriet didn’t reply to his questions- she had questions of her own. “Are you just with me because I’m rich, because I’m a  _ prize _ to you?”

He buried his head in his hands with a sound of pure frustration. “No! I have no idea if you’re rich. I made a guess, based on the fact that you’re the last of your line, and because I knew that Oliver frigging Deacon would be more likely to understand money and power.” He looked up at her. “Harriet, you’ve been in my head. You know I can’t control what you see. You can check what I say is true.” He sat up straight. “Go on,” he said. 

She looked at him in shock. “You want me to use legilimency?” she asked, her voice high in surprise.

“Not particularly,” he allowed with a tense shrug of his shoulder. “It gives me a headache like you wouldn’t believe. But if it will stop you thinking that I’m cheating on you, or that I’m doing all this for  _ money _ -” he spat the word in distaste, “then go ahead.”

Her heart squeezed, and it felt a bit like she might be sick again. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

“Why, though, Harriet? Why’d you do it? I don’t understand. You're acting like a thoughtless child!”

“Because I’m trapped!” she cried out. “I’m stuck there, and I can’t get out!”

Robin rubbed at his head. Even without legilimency, he was developing an ache behind his left eye.  “You’ve always been ‘trapped’ there,” he pointed out. “This is not a new situation.” He noticed her shiver even beneath his jacket, and leaned over to turn on the two-bar electric heater. “Come here, please,” he said softly, his volume dropped significantly, “before you get too cold.”

She considered refusing, but it seemed silly, as childish as he'd accused her of being. She was cold, and the heater was over there, plus Robin’s warm body. Gingerly, she crossed the room, glad when he opened his arms in invitation for her to cuddle. Surely, he couldn’t be so very angry if he wanted to cuddle her? She clambered into his lap. “What will you do?” she asked quietly.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice rumbly in his chest. She felt a little happier here, safer, even though he was stiff and tense.

“Are you going to break up with me?” she asked in a fearful whisper. “Or tell your dad? Or… or punish me?”

“Punish you?” he pulled back to look at her in confusion. “What?”

She fiddled with the zip of his jacket, zipping it up and down. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Spank me, or something.”

He sighed, his arms tightening around her. “No, kitten. That’s not how it works. Not with me, anyway.” Then, quietly, “Did they beat you? Your family, I mean.”

She shrugged, as much as she could, wrapped in both his jacket and his arms. “Dudley used to pummel me, him and his gang. But not Aunt Petunia, or Uncle Vernon. He always said he should, to ‘beat the freakishness out of me,’ but he never did. Don’t think he could be bothered.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “I… I didn’t think, not ‘til after… well, it would have explained your reaction to my interest in spanking you.”

“I just didn’t know it was a thing,” Harriet said quietly.”I didn’t know people could enjoy that. It’s not that it brought up bad memories or anything.” She realised, though, that he still hadn’t answered her other questions. She was reasonably sure that he wasn’t going to break up with her- he was cuddling her, after all. But would he tell Severus? “But what about the rest? Will you tell your dad?”

He was silent for a few minutes, thoughtful. Without even noticing, he’d started rocking, just slightly, to try to soothe Harriet, and maybe himself as well. “Do I need to?” he asked eventually. “Are you planning on doing this again, and does anyone else know you’re here?”

“Ron was going to come with me, but he got detention,” she admitted. “But I told him I wasn’t going to go, so no…”

“I don’t know if I’m pleased about that or not,” he murmured into her hair. “If something had happened to you, no-one would have known.”

She tipped her face up to him. “Ron and Hermione would have guessed, I think, if I wasn’t back tomorrow,” she pointed out. He frowned, and rubbed his thumb across her lip. “I can’t say I’m keen on you wearing lipstick that colour,” he informed her. “It looks all wrong on you. Why won’t it come off?”

“It’s a charm,” she said, wiggling in his grip to fish out her wand and end the spell. “I wanted to look older.”

“I think prostitute may have been more accurate,” he informed her dryly, though not really unkindly. “I know I should tell Dad, just in case Oliver does spread it, but... “ he shook his head. “I’ll deal with Oliver. He adores Carrie, so if I can convince her to tell him to stay quiet, it should be okay.”

He sighed, deep in thought. Harriet yawned widely. She was almost always 0in bed by midnight. His bedside clock informed her that it was almost one in the morning. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

“I can apparate,” she insisted. “How far do your wards go?” 

“No, kitten,” he replied. “You’re tired, and I want to make sure you get home. Floo is best.” 

He set her onto the bed, and knelt by the empty fireplace, stacking kindling and reaching for a box of matches. “Here,” she said, moving his hands aside and using her wand to light the fire. 

He smiled weakly in thanks, and opened a little cupboard off to the side of the fireplace. She caught a glimpse of a couple of small cauldrons and some little bottles and boxes before he pulled out a large pot of floo powder. “Hogwarts, Severus Snape’s quarters,” he advised her. “It’s the only fireplace this one is connected to, so you can’t get lost.”

“Okay,” she said quietly, taking a pinch of powder. “Are you… are you going back to the club?”

Robin shook his head. “No,” he said, taking some powder for himself. “I am coming with you to make sure you actually get into bed.”

“I can put myself to bed,” she huffed.

Robin raised an eyebrow and waved her towards the fireplace. “I’ve yet to see any evidence of that tonight,” he said. There was really nothing to say in response to that, so she just flung the floo powder into the fire, called out her destination, stepped in…

And stopped dead on the other side, causing Robin to stumble into her back and yelp in pain when she didn’t move from immediately before the flames. Severus arched an eyebrow from behind his book. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked sardonically. Robin shoved Harriet forward with more force than he would normally use, convinced he was about to catch fire, stood on the hearth as he was, even if he was out of the flames. 

Harriet seemed completely stumped by the sight of the potions master in a black silk dressing gown, his feet bare, one tucked beneath him. “Well?” Severus asked. 

“We… we were fetching a book,” Robin said. “Winnie the Pooh. Harriet’s never read it. I thought I’d read some to her.”

Severus nodded. “Ah, yes. Which would, of course, explain why Harriet is carrying a bag. In order to hold the most weighty words of A. A. Milne. It would also give a perfect reasoning for both of you to be dressed in daytime clothes at a quarter to one in the morning, and explain why both of you look quite petrified to find me here. I am not a basilisk.”

Harriet shifted uncomfortably. She wished Robin had just let her apparate back. Then this wouldn’t have happened. She could have side-alonged with him if he was so determined to see her home. He could fit under the invisibility cloak: she’d have found an excuse for being out after curfew if Filch had caught them.

“As a matter of fact,” Severus continued, unchallenged by either teenager, “I seem to recall that it is your friend’s twentieth birthday party tonight, Robin. Carrie, isn’t it? Therefore, I must suspect that you are intending on taking Harriet with you.”

Robin swallowed. They’d be in trouble… but not as much trouble as if his Dad knew what had really happened. “It was my idea,” he said, his voice bolder than he felt.

Very carefully, Severus marked his place in his book, setting it aside on the table, beside the empty tumbler that had contained a measure of firewhiskey. Tonight was a nightmare night, a night where he could see death and destruction and pain whenever he closed his eyes. He had hoped to deaden his memories with the alcohol; he preferred it to the near-addiction to dreamless sleep he had developed following Lily’s murder. He stood, his bare toes curling into his hearth-rug. “I suppose,” he mused, “that you are too old now to be sent to your bedroom, or have your pocket money withheld. However,” he mused, “if this is the kind of care you show for Harriet’s safety, I must reconsider how… permissive I have been with regards to your visits.”

Harriet’s heart thumped painfully in her chest. “No,” she said defiantly. “I’ve already been told off by Robin. I wanted to go: he said no. So I snuck out to find him. He brought me straight back, and here we are.”

“Harriet…” Robin breathed in frustration.

Severus crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured another glug of firewhiskey. He swirled it thoughtfully. “And how am I to know which of you is truthful?” he asked mildly.

“I am, Professor,” Harriet said, reverting to classroom formality. “Robin’s just trying to protect me by taking the blame.”

“Mmm,” Severus agreed. “My son, the selfless hero. Well, someone must do it, I suppose.” He settled himself back into his chair, Harriet and Robin stood before him like naughty children. Robin’s head was bowed in contrition, but Harriet looked at him defiantly. He was strongly reminded of James Potter, though he tried to remove the idea from his mind. Despite the black hair and glasses (he really should talk to Harriet about having her eyesight magically corrected), it was so much easier to see Harriet as Lily’s daughter. Harry had always felt like James’ son- not really belonging to Lily at all. “Tell me, Harriet, how did you leave the school grounds?” 

“I apparated,” she replied flatly. 

“Indeed. That is… interesting, given that there are anti-apparition wards over the school. I suggest that you rethink your story.”

“I never said that I apparated from the school, Sir. I apparated from Hogsmeade.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I see. And how, pray, did you reach Hogsmeade?”

Harriet tipped her chin up in defiance. “I’d rather not say,” she informed him.

Severus sighed. “I suppose it has something to do with your infernal invisibility cloak,” he replied. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to give it up to myself or Professor Lupin for safekeeping until you finish the school year, can I?”

“No, Sir, not really.”

Severus sighed. By rights, he should just demand the overpowered artifact there and then. He was going soft, he mused. “And how am I to know that this escapade will not be repeated?”

“It won’t,” Harriet said. 

Severus arched a brow in disbelief. Robin spoke next. “Harriet had a bit of a fright,” he said. “I don’t think she’ll be trying anything similar anytime soon.”

“Harriet Potter, deterred by a little fear?” Severus asked sardonically. “Wonders never cease. Go to bed, Harriet. On this occasion- and this occasion only- I will amend the night-time records of students to show that you were in bed. Merlin knows I should let you answer to Professors Lupin and McGonagall, but I would rather not have your whereabouts on this particular evening questioned.”

“Thank you, Sir” she said quietly, and, knowing to quit whilst she was ahead, took a little of Severus’s floo powder to get through to her own room. 

Robin followed a couple of minutes later. He’d suffered under his very own batch of telling off by his father, but Severus had at least relented, allowing him to stay the night, as he typically did on a weekend. 

Harriet, exhausted, fell asleep quickly. Robin watched her sleep for a few minutes before slipping from her embrace and pulling on his clothes. He knew that his father wouldn’t be in bed yet- he’d had the dark look in his eyes, the look that said he’d be lucky to fall asleep for a few hours in his chair, exhaustion finally chasing the night terrors away. Robin had been a noticing sort of person all his life, and he’d always noticed when his father was more tired than usual. It had taken until he was sixteen to finally connect that the sleepless nights were in a vain attempt to evade the horrors of the images in his father’s mind. 

Sure enough, Severus was still sat in his chair before the fire. He looked up with a cocked eyebrow to see his son appear again so soon. “Harriet’s asleep,” Robin explained quietly. “May… may we talk?”

“Of course,” Severus replied, with an internal sigh. It was something he had promised himself when he first held Robin in his arms, that he would always have time for his child. Not like his own alcoholic father or depressed, distant mother. No matter how tired he was, Robin had to come first. “Help yourself to a drink.”

Robin eschewed his father’s preferred firewhiskey. He’d rather drink paint thinner. He poured a small glass of red wine instead. Some of his friends gently ridiculed him for enjoying wine, but he preferred it to most spirits. If nothing else, being taught potions gave him an appreciation of the more subtle flavours in wine. Severus kept it mostly for him.

He settled onto the sofa, curled up so his feet were tucked beneath him, and pulled a cushion onto his lap. “I told Harriet I wouldn’t tell you, but… you already know the half of it, I suppose,” he began. Severus waved for him to continue. Robin took a deep breath, and let it out. “She found me in the nightclub. I was stupid; I pretty much told her where to find me. I had no idea she’d try to follow me, to be honest, I have no idea how she got past the anti-apparition wards myself. I haven’t asked. But… well, she found me, but she was recognised first.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed. “Recognised?” he prompted.

“Yeah,” Robin said heavily. “I had no idea… well, Carrie’s brother is apparently a muggleborn wizard. I don’t know him that well; I never asked about his schooling. He saw her scar.”

“What is his name?” Severus asked.

“Oliver Deacon.”

“A Ravenclaw. He would have fitted well in Slytherin, had he not been muggleborn,” Severus mused.

“I can believe that,” Robin said tiredly. He wanted a headache remedy, but he wanted to get this out first. “Without boring you with the details, he and Carrie put two and two together. He knows… he guessed that I’m your son. I told him I didn’t want it spread, that I didn’t want to be associated with you: he swallowed that remarkably easily. I threatened him with… well, with Harriet. Said that I was just with her for the clout of the Potter name, and that if my parentage was leaked, I’d know who’d spread the fact.”

Severus’ lips were tight. “Do you think he will, as you put it, leak?”

Robin shook his head. “I’m reasonably sure that he’ll keep it quiet. I have no idea what connections he has, or what he’d stand to gain by spreading it, but he seemed convinced that I’d be able to make his life a misery if it got out.”

“I’m not surprised, if you threatened him with the Potter name,” Severus replied. “Harriet is the darling of the wizarding world, the only hope against the Dark Lord. He would be a fool to risk his reputation so. I will make some enquiries as to his social circles, to gauge what damage he could do.”

Robin rubbed his head. “I’ll talk to Carrie, make sure she understands how big this is.”

Severus nodded. “Harriet was remarkably foolish,” he said. “I hope she is aware of that.”

“I’m pretty sure she is,” Robin said. “She thought… she thought I’d break up with her because of it.” He decided to leave out that her alternative train of thought had been corporal punishment. He wasn’t altogether sure he was comfortable sharing any sexual kinks he may or may not have with his father.

“Thank you for doing me the courtesy of informing me,” Severus said. “Get yourself a headache remedy. I can see you need one.”

“Thanks,” Robin said heavily. leaving his glass on the drinks cabinet for the house elves to clean. “Oh, Dad?” he questioned, “Just how much is Harriet worth? Monetarily, I mean.”

“I think you should ask her that,” Severus replied, staring into the fire. “I really couldn’t put a figure on it.”


	45. Bedroom related disagreements

Harriet rolled out of bed at nine. To her surprise, Robin wasn’t there- she’d have expected him to still be asleep. She thought she may as well get a trip to the hospital wing over with, and hopefully Madam Pomfrey would let her play in tomorrow’s match. She’d been drinking the blood replenishers obediently, and had let Robin repeat the treatment with dittany when he’d visited midweek, at Severus’ suggestion. She knew from her own inspection with mirrors that the scarring was fading, white instead of pink now. Within a few weeks, it would narrow and eventually vanish. She was pleased. She already had one curse scar, and she didn’t want to carry another all her life.

Madam Pomfrey was bending over a fifth year Hufflepuff’s bed when Harriet arrived. She glanced up. “Ah, Harriet. I’ll just be a minute; feel free to wait in my office.” She waved over towards the door. 

Harriet settled in the chair by the desk, bored already. She leaned forward so she could peer through the door, watching the matron pour out a dose of some kind of potion onto a spoon for the student. The fifth year took the potion with a wince, but no complaint, and Madam Pomfrey twitched the curtain around the bed closed again. Harriet quickly sat back before the matron realised she’d been peeking. She heard water run and splash, and Madam Pomfrey appeared drying her hands. She nudged the door to with her foot, open enough that she’d hear anyone else arriving.

She smiled. “Now, then, how are you feeling?” she asked Harriet.

“Fine,” Harriet replied, hoping to get this over with and get on her broom to practice for tomorrow’s match. 

“Well, let’s see, shall we?” Madam Pomfrey said. “Why don’t you take your top off and hop up onto the couch over there? I’ll see what your blood levels are like and check the scar.”

Harriet sighed. She’d been hoping for a ‘you look fine’ and permission to play in the match tomorrow. She tugged her long-sleeved t-shirt over her head and wiggled onto the high examination couch. Madam Pomfrey took her wrist, feeling for her pulse, and nodded after a few seconds. 

A couple of wordless diagnostic spells left a faint glow of colour around her. “Well, you’re an awful lot better. I’d like you to take a half dose of blood replenisher once a day for the next week. Have you had any dizziness?

“Not since Monday,” Harriet said. 

“Good. Lie down on your tummy, please.”

Feeling quite exposed and helpless, Harriet obeyed. She stiffened when Madam Pomfrey unsnapped her bra and pushed it aside, firm fingers pressing into the scar. “Not bad,” she said. “Give it two months, and you won’t even be able to see it anymore, I think. How’s your magic been? No struggles to cast spells?”

“Should I have struggled?” Harriet asked, puzzled.

“It can be a side effect of some curses. Not this one, that I know of, but always worth a check. You can get dressed again now.”

Gratefully, Harriet sat up and reached behind her to refasten her bra. She reached for her top as Madam Pomfrey sat behind her desk, scribbling in a file. When she was done, she tapped it with her wand and sent it flying to a cabinet behind her.

“Now then,” she said. “I suppose you’re after playing that quidditch match tomorrow?”

“Yes please!” Harriet replied eagerly.

Madam Pomfrey fixed her in a stern glare. “You’re to have a good lunch, then go out for a fly. Take someone with you, and stay close to the ground to start with. Any dizziness, the slightest hint of nausea, you come back to me.”

“And if I’m fine?” Harriet asked hopefully.

“Then you may play,” Madam Pomfrey agreed reluctantly.

Harriet couldn’t help the broad grin spreading across her face. “Thank you,” she said, getting up to go and hunt for her broom. “Not so fast, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said. Harriet plonked back into the chair, trying to suppress her sigh. She didn’t want to give Madam Pomfrey the excuse to stop her playing on account of attitude. “Only after you’ve eaten lunch, not now. Would I be correct in thinking that Professor Snape has been looking after you as well?”

Harriet shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not sure how much she could say. “Erm, a bit, yeah,” she said.

To her surprise, Madam Pomfrey smiled a little. “He is not so terrifying as he would like his students to believe,” she advised. “I was… surprised, though, to realise that you are close to Robin. Not many people know about Robin.”

“Erm, yeah,” Harriet agreed. “I know that.”

Madam Pomfrey looked at her appraisingly. “Robin is a very special boy,” she said. “If you are to continue this… liason, you need to think very carefully about what you want from life.”

“Huh?” was Harriet’s erudite response.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “You are a witch. He cannot use magic. I suggest you consider the impact that would have on your future life.”

“Why does everyone keep saying this kind of stuff?” Harriet demanded. “It’s not that big a deal!”

Madam Pomfrey looked at her sadly. “It would have been better had he been born with no legs,” she replied. Harriet made a face, and the matron just smiled gently. “Just a warning. Now, go. Remember, a half dose of blood replenishers for seven more days, and come back if you feel dizzy or sick.”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed, realising that asking any more about why having no legs was better than having no magic was only going to infuriate her. How did wizards think muggles managed? she wondered. Madam Pomfrey finally let her go.

She ambled along the castle corridors. Just what was it that people, magical people, saw as so terrible in a person with no magic? No wonder Filch was so grumpy, if people went about saying things like he’d have been better off with no legs. 

As if the thought itself drew him, Filch appeared from around the corner. “Potter,” he wheezed. “What’re you doing out and about?”

“Just going back to my rooms to do some work, Sir,” Harriet said, surprising herself  with the addition of the honourific. She’d never called Filch ‘sir’ before.

He narrowed his eyes, nodded once, and wandered off, muttering.

There was still no sign of Robin in her room. Feeling slightly put out, she went to see if he was in his own room. No sooner had she stepped out of the floo, though, Severus appeared. “What have you to say for yourself, young lady?” he asked.

Harriet stopped dead, a deer in headlights. “What?” she asked, afraid. He hadn’t been happy last night, but he seemed angry now.

“Your bed, Harriet,” Severus growled.

“My… my bed?” she asked, completely confused and just about ready to flee through the floo.

“Yes,” Severus replied, his voice low, silken, and dangerous. “When I went to amend the records of your whereabouts last night, I found that your bed was under the clearly mistaken impression that you barely stirred all night, that you were in bed just after curfew, and remained there until the last checks at half past six this morning. I, however, know differently, since you were in this room during the one AM checks. I ask again, what have you to say for yourself?”

Harriet just blinked up at him. He let out a soft breath. “What did you do to the bed, Harriet?”

“Nothing!I have no idea.” she insisted. 

Severus snorted. “Somehow you have circumvented the charms on your bed. The night you were in the hospital wing, it also claimed you to be safe in your room. What did you do, Harriet? Or rather, what did Miss Granger do?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Harriet said flatly. 

Severus’ eyebrows rose. “If you are hiding the truth from me, Harriet, you should reconsider. You are a very foolish child. You clearly have no regard for your own safety, so I should not be surprised that you are wandering off at night. By all means, continue in your attempts to kill yourself, but do try to leave the rest of us alive!”

“What are you talking about?” Harriet demanded hotly. “I’ve never tried to kill anyone!”

Severus crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone acerbic. “I suppose, then, that you have not considered that you have placed Robin in a very precarious position after your escapade last night? How are we to know that Mr. Deacon- who, I hasten to add, is engaged to be married to an employee of the Daily Prophet- is not going to share the fascinating news that he discovered yesterday?”

Harriet gulped. Severus knew. That meant that either Robin had told him, or he’d heard from Oliver. Severus continued unabated. “You do have form, after all, for dragging bystanders to their deaths during your adventures. Though I did not mourn the passage of Sirius Black, his untimely demise was linked to your foolishness.”

That was a low blow indeed. Harriet gasped. Later, she would know that it was Severus’ anger that had caused him to say it, but for now, she was just shocked. How could he bring Sirius up like that, after she’d taken so long to come to terms with it? Severus glared down at her. “Robin believes that you have learnt your lesson, I will trust him… on this occasion. We will attempt to mitigate any damage you have caused. If you are foolish enough to commit such a thoughtless, selfish act again, I will cut all contact between you and my son. He deserves as full and long life as possible, and if that means not seeing you, so be it.”

Harriet’s throat was closed in something between anger and sorrow. She didn’t know what to do, so she just continued to glare at him.

Anger rose in Severus. The desire to do something- assign detention, take points, even, Merlin forbid, reach out and slap the child, James Potter’s brat… he gulped in a lungful of air. “Go, Harriet,” he muttered darkly, with a wave towards Robin’s room.

She went, dashing for what she hoped was safety. Severus sank into a chair with his head in his hands. No, he told himself. No, not James Potter’s perfect little son, shown off to all and sundry. No. This was Lily’s daughter, the child for which she’d been willing to lie to her husband and all her acquaintances. The child she’d been willing to die for. He groaned at the wish he’d had to strike her. He’d never, never raised a hand to Robin. He would never fall into the vicious cycle of abuse to which his own father had succumbed., no matter what happened.

He knew that it was the exhaustion, the stress, that made him so volatile, but he needed to keep a reign on his emotions, no matter what. Sitting up, he took a slow, deep breath, then another. He helped no one like this, least of all himself. He needed to accomplish what was necessary, not wallow in self-pity.

Harriet slipped into Robin’s room, more afraid than she would have let on to Severus. The room was dark, a blanketed lump the only evidence of an occupier. She peeled back the blankets and slipped into the bed, seeking our Robin’s body heat. “Harriet?” he asked sleepily.

“How many other girls do you get climbing into your bed?” she snapped, nerves still on edge from her run-in with Severus. Her heart seized when she realised that Severus was right: Robin could be in danger because of her. The wizarding world was small, but would people believe Oliver if he said Severus had a son?

Robin tried to wrap his arms around her, his brain still sleep-mussed, but she stiffened, arching away. “None, kitten,” he assured her sleepily. “You know that. What’s the matter?”

Harriet didn’t reply, just thrashed out of the blankets again, making a run for the door, and the floo.

Robin found escaping the bed easier, since she’d managed to kick the blankets off, and grabbed her around the middle before she’d made it to the living room. “Kitten,” he murmured into her ear. “What is it?” 

Harriet choked out a sob, all the fight leaving her. She flopped over Robin’s arms, and he pulled her back against him. “Shhh,” he soothed, sinking down to the floor with her. “D’you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “You’re angry at me,” was part explanation of the problem, part explanation of her reluctance to talk to him.

“No, kitten, I’m not.”

She looked up at him briefly. “You had to leave last night because of me. You said you were angry.”

“I was angry because you put yourself in danger, Harriet,” he explained gently. “All I want to know is that you’ll not do something like that again. You’re too precious to lose.”

“Your dad’s angry with me,” she replied stubbornly. “And you told him. You told him what happened!

“Yes, kitten, I did,” Robin said with a sigh. “I had to. I owed it to him.”

“Because I put you in danger.”

Robin kissed the top of her head. “You are not to blame for an accident of birth,” he told her. “It’s not your fault that my dad’s a double agent serving a madman, and he can’t expect you to shoulder the blame for that. It’s amazing that nothing like this has happened before: Oliver knew me as soon as he realised I was magical. I could as easily have had a bout of uncontrolled magic around him; it is possible.”

“Severus is scary when he’s angry,” she retorted, not really ready to listen to reason.

“And you’re not immune to that after seven years of potions lessons? What else is bothering you?” Robin wanted to know. 

Harriet shrugged. How could she tell Robin that people kept suggesting that she shouldn’t be with him because she had magic and he didn’t, when all she could think was that there were probably a hundred other girls he’d rather be with.

“How many girls have you slept with?” she asked suddenly, bluntly. 

He frowned, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t know. A few.”

“A few’s not an answer,” she pressed. “How many? Ten, twenty? Fifty? A hundred?”

“Erm…” Robin chewed on his lip, his eyes ceiling-ward, deep in thought. “They kind of blur. Like, maybe twenty five? I had a lot of one night stands last year.”

“How long will it be until I’m just a blur?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, kitten,” he said, faint exasperation tinting his voice. “You don’t understand, do you? You can never be a blur. Other girls… they were just girls. Fun. They scratched the itch, cleared my head for a while. With you… I don’t just want sex. I wouldn’t have ever called myself the romantic type- I did sex, and apparently I’m good at it, because it seemed to keep them coming back. But I didn’t want anything more than sex. I did relationships because some girls wanted that. But I wasn’t the flowers and chocolates type of guy. Until I met you.”

“How do I know you don’t say that to every girl?” she asked plaintively. “How do I know you don’t say that to some other girl on the days you don’t see me?”

Robin’s head hit the wall behind him with a thump. He took a couple of deep breaths. “Trust has to come into it somewhere, Harriet,” he said eventually. “I can’t be sure that you aren’t off with someone else on the nights I’m not here either, but I trust you’re not. I know… well, I’m reasonably sure that you aren’t interested in open relationships and polyamory, and I’m not. I only want you. I wouldn’t still be here after the stunt you pulled last night if you weren’t worth it.” 

Harriet nibbled at her lip. She wanted to believe Robin. She couldn’t think of a single time he’d given her any reason to doubt that she was the only girlfriend he had on the go. But still, she was so sure that she wasn’t good enough, that maybe she was just his ‘prize’.

Robin kissed her hairline. “Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?” he whispered. “Whatever it is, I won’t be angry.” She stayed resolutely silent, and Robin finally gave up with a grunt of frustration. “I’m cold,” he said. “You coming while I put some clothes on?”

She nodded, and it was only when Robin had his head in a jumper that she finally asked, “would you be with me if I wasn’t, you know, a Potter?”

Robin’s head popped out of the neck hole of the jumper and he looked at her in surprise. “Harriet, to begin with, I had no idea who you were. It took a while for me to actually connect you to your history.”

“It was before you kissed me, though,” she pointed out. “Did you decide to kiss me because I have money, an old family name?”

Robin sat down to pull on his socks. “The thought never entered my mind,” he said. “I have no idea how much money you have. I know you’ve got a couple of houses, but that doesn’t mean much, especially since one’s a ruin.”

“I have five houses,” she admitted quietly. “Two in London, one in Edinburgh, the house at Godric’s Hollow, and a house in France. In terms of money; somewhere in the region of a hundred thousand galleons. Oh, and a suit of armour.”

Robin’s eyebrows raised at the amount of money, but he smiled at the mention of the armour. “Does it fit?” he asked archly.

She looked at him strangely. “It’s not mine,” she explained. “Some kind of family heirloom.”

“I had guessed,” he assured her. “I was joking. But no, Harriet, I have no interest in your money. I had no idea you had so much, but knowing your monetary value doesn’t change how I feel about you one bit. No matter how much money you have, it doesn’t change who you are- a very loyal witch with a bit of a self-esteem problem, too much of an adventurous spirit for your own good, and a face so beautiful that it makes my heart stop every time I see it.”

She was blushing. “I’m just me,” she protested.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Just you- and you, Harriet Potter, are perfect.” He leaned over to kiss her, only lightly, on the lips, waiting to see what she would do. Mollified by his words, she reached up to wrap her arms about his neck, pressing up into the kiss and licking at his lips to deepen it. With a groan, he let her in.

A few moments later, they pulled apart. “And to think, I’ve just put clothes on,” he said, a hand cupping her breast through her clothing. When he slipped a hand up her top, he found her nipple stiff and pebbled, and was reasonably certain that he’d encounter wet knickers should he move south. It explained her moodiness, he supposed, if she was needy again. He kissed her once more, enjoying the moan of pleasure as he caressed her body.

There was a resounding slam as the door to Severus’ quarters shut. “Harriet?” the potions master called.

Robin’s shoulders slumped, and he pulled his hand away. “Well,” he said, “I suppose it will just have to wait.”

Harriet was no more delighted at the prospect of facing Severus again so soon after his anger earlier. She tugged on Robin’s arm to get him to come with her. 

Severus was pacing in front of the fire. He watched them appear from the corridor with shadowed eyes. “I apologise, Harriet,” he said. “I have ascertained that the… malfunction of the charms on your bed were not your doing.”

“Well, I told you that!” Harriet insisted hotly. Then, curious, “What was it?”

Severus sat in his armchair and gestured the pair to the sofa. “I went to speak to Professor Lupin,” he explained, “on the pretext that I had been checking the records for my Slytherins, and had noticed that you were apparently in bed when you should have been in the hospital wing. After some calculation, it would appear that the bed assigned to you, which has followed you throughout your Hogwarts career, was tampered with a number of years ago, by another student. It will always report that the occupant is present and correct when expected.”

“How do you know it was someone else?” Robin asked. “Not that I’m suggesting Harriet had anything to do with it…”

“I know, because Professor Lupin was the one to recharm it, along with a few other beds. He claims to have quite forgotten until I brought it up, but he meddled with the beds belonging to himself, Sirius Black and James Potter. Quite coincidentally, Harriet was placed in the same dormitory as her father had occupied. More than that, it is the very same bed.”


	46. The interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been pointed out to me that I should probably explain my reasoning for using the name the Wizarding colleges instead of the Wizarding University, since it's an institute of higher education, which in the UK is usually called a university. I'm well aware of this, working in HE myself, but 'university' is a protected term in the UK, only usable if the institution has been given the leave of the Privy council. On the other hand, college is not protected. I can't imagine the wizards faffing about with the Privy council, although I'm also reasonably sure no one would report them for it! However, given the small size of the cohort at the Wizarding colleges, the term university just didn't seem to fit.
> 
> I'd also like to say thanks for all my reviews. I had quite a few on the last chapter, which I didn't expect, since I didn't see it as a major chapter in terms of plot, compared to the one before! I do enjoy hearing what you think, and since you bring up things I didn't necessarily think of, I reckon it makes me a better writer. So thanks! And I must admit I get a little 'yay' moment whenever one pops up.
> 
> And to the folks who asked, there will be a bit more Severus and Hermione in the future. Whilst there won't be any naughty bits between them in this fic, because it's Harriet focused, and she really doesn't want to see that, I'm considering doing a one-shot or two of them in the future to fit into this story. 
> 
> Whew, that was some essay there! On that note, here's some more Harriet...

With shaking hands, Harriet nervously smoothed her robes. Black, freshly laundered and pressed by the house elves, Hogwarts crest transfigured away. She didn’t want to look like ‘just a schoolgirl’. Imogen had taught her a charm for braiding her hair, and it lay in a  neat french braid down her back. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt this nervous, except perhaps when she caught the Hogwarts express for the very first time. She’d been nervous at the beginning of this year, but at least she’d had some idea of what she was getting into.

She was up in the Headmistress’ office ten minutes before she was expected to floo through to the Wizarding colleges. The gargoyle obligingly moved aside and let her onto the moving staircase. “Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, standing behind her desk and leafing through a pile of owl post. “Good. Are you ready?”

“I think so, Professor,” she replied, voice high with nerves. 

“Excellent,”  McGonagall said. “Now, you know the floo address?”

“Yes,” Harriet replied.

“Well, I shall trust you to see yourself there, then,” she said. “My third years will be due in my classroom at any moment. Good luck, Potter.”

Harriet managed a watery smile in thanks before McGonagall swept from the room. Harriet looked about. The office was unchanged since the last time she was in here- it still just looked like Dumbledore’s. Even Fawkes still sat on his perch. He keened softly at her, and she went over to say hello, stroking his fiery plumage. Harriet had always liked Fawkes- after all, how could you not like a bird that had saved your life?

“Hello, Harriet, Dumbledore’s soft voice said from behind her. 

She whirled. “Hello, Professor,” she replied.

If she had thought that Dumbledore looked tired and ill the last time she’d seen him, she was mistaken. Now, his presence seemed to have gone, and he was smaller, almost shrunken in on himself. His back hunched, and his magnificent mane of hair had thinned back from his forehead. His eyes were flat, and, though he kept his cursed hand tucked into his robes, she still caught a flash of blackened flesh at his wrist as he moved slowly forwards. He smiled weakly. “I can see that my appearance is something of a shock to you,” he told her. “Yes, child, I am dying. We all must die, in the end. As I have said before, it is our next adventure, though, I confess, I should have preferred to prepare to leave at a happier time.”

“Sir… Voldemort…” Harriet managed to force out.

Dumbledore leaned heavily against the back of the chair behind the desk. “You will know what to do when the time comes, child,” he assured her.

“I don’t think I will, Professor,” she replied.

He gave that weak, watered down smile again. “Trust in those around you. Now, I think, you should be going on to your next adventure- it is time, I believe, for you to go to your interview?”

Harriet realised he was right. “May I come and see you, Professor, when I get back?” she asked, suddenly afraid that this might be the last time she would see her mentor.

“Now, you don’t want to be wasting your precious time with an old man,” Dumbledore said with a hint of his old twinkle. “Go on with you now, into the floo.” And then, Dumbledore grasped Fawkes by the tail, and both vanished. Shaking her head, Harriet took some floo powder and stepped into the fire. “Alizon Hall, Wizarding colleges, Lancaster,” she said firmly.

A witch in dark green robes looked up as she stumbled out of the fireplace into a high-ceilinged, marble-floored hall. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly when Harriet had her bearings. “Are you here for an interview?”

“Oh, er, yes, I am,” Harriet replied.

“Who are you meeting?” the witch asked. “And your name, please?”

Harriet pulled out her sheaf of parchment. “I’m supposed to see Professor Lake,” she said. “I’m Harriet Potter.”

“Have a seat,” the witch said, gesturing to a few finely carved chairs with forest green cushions off the the side. “I’ll let Professor Lake know you’re here.” She scribbled a note and folded it, sending flying down a hall like a Ministry of Magic memo. Harriet tried not to fidget, holding her hands tightly together in her lap. 

Luckily for her, it was only a few moments before a wizard who looked to be in his forties appeared, hair almost as blonde as a Malfoy, dressed in dark trousers and shirt, his own green robes open and flapping behind him. “Miss Potter,” he said, walking straight towards her and holding out his hand to her. She stood and shook it, trying not to tremble. “Very nice to meet you. I’m Tristan Lake, lead tutor on the Defence course.”

“Hello, Professor,” Harriet replied. 

“Tristan will do fine. May I call you Harriet?”

“Oh… yes, of course,” Harriet said, feeling a bit odd. None of the teachers at Hogwarts were called by their first names (well, she called Severus by his first name, but certainly not in lessons!) and she’d never actually had someone  _ ask _ to use her first name before.

Tristan grinned widely. “Excellent. Shall we go through to my office for a chat, and then I’ll take you for a bit of a tour.”

Tristan’s office was more like a large cupboard, stuffed with a bookcase and an oversized desk, covered in piles of parchment and a few little trinkets. He moved a stack of papers off a second chair, waving her into it. “Now,” he said, sitting down, “I’m afraid I simply can’t ignore the matter, so we may as well get it out in the open- the boy who lived!”

“Well,” Harriet said, “Not so much the boy who lived as the girl who lived.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” Tristan agreed. “Would you enlighten me on that? All I know is what was reported in the  _ Prophet, _ and well, most of what they publish is speculation and gossip-mongering anyway…”

At least he realised that much, Harriet thought. “I was disguised as a boy at birth,” she explained shortly. “I gather my father wanted a boy, so my mother used some old spells that made me look male. The spells broke on my seventeenth birthday. I’ve been living as a girl since then.”

“Fascinating…” Tristan said, leaning forward on his elbows. “And you’re happy living as a girl? No… desire to return to life as a man?”

Harriet shrugged. “I’m the same person, it doesn’t matter what body I’m in,” she pointed out.

“Yes, well…” Tristan said, leaning back in his big leather chair. “I will admit, we don’t take many girls. This course is not like the others offered by the Colleges. They are, for the most part, cerebral and sedentary in nature. Defence, though, is a very physical study. You can have an excellent grasp of the spellwork and theory, but without physical fitness, you’ll never make a dueller. Often, females simply don’t have the physical prowess to keep up.”

Harriet found that her muddled brain cleared. No one could tell her she was unfit to duel! “I’ve played quidditch on my house team since my first year,” she pointed out. “I’m not unfit. I’m small and I’m fast. I can dodge easily- and isn’t that more important in defence anyway? I’d rather be small and fast than big and strong. Smaller target, I suppose.”

“Yes, that’s very true,” Tristan agreed. “Fast and strong would be best. However, we shall see about your skills in that regard later on, perhaps… for now, why not tell me why it is that you would like to join us here?”

This, obviously, was a question she’d anticipated, prepared for. “I used to want to be an auror,” she said. “But the aurors come in, wands blazing, to rescue people. I want people to be able to defend themselves, so they don’t need the aurors to feel safe. Everyone should be able to defend themselves, and their own homes, without waiting for an auror to come along. By the time they get there, maybe the person’s hurt, or dead… I want to be able to teach people. But I want to teach them the best, not just what they didn’t pay attention to in defence lessons at Hogwarts.”

Tristan nodded along with a smile. “Studies here will go far, far beyond what is taught at Hogwarts. It used to be that many of our students were taken from Hogwarts, but increasingly, we draw our intake from other schools around the world. Hogwarts graduates now seem content to go into the world with only their school training.”

Harriet looked at him squarely. “I didn’t even know that this place existed until this year,” she replied, not liking his insinuation that Hogwarts students were somehow lazy or stupid. 

“Yes, well, we do only take five students onto each course every year. Hogwarts is only one school. Now, I see from your school records that you’re taking your NEWTs in Defence, Potions, Charms, Transfigurations and Herbology, yes?

“Yeah… they were the required subjects for auror training,” Harriet explained.

Tristan steepled his fingers. “I am disappointed to not see Arithmancy, nor Ancient Runes, either at OWL or NEWT level,” he informed her. “Both are very useful in warding, which, as I’m sure you know, is quite a major part of defence. If you’re anticipating teaching people to defend themselves and their homes, wards would surely form a large portion of that?”

“Erm, yeah,” Harriet agreed, feeling a bit wrong footed again. 

“So,” her inquisitor asked, “What experience have you in practical use of magical fighting? I don’t see any mention of duelling societies on your application.”

“Erm, well, Hogwarts doesn’t have one,” Harriet admitted. Tristan snorted, but Harriet pushed on. “We kind of did, once, when I was in second year, but it was a complete disaster. I don’t know how much you know, but we’ve had some pretty rubbish Defence teachers in the last seven years. That year was Lockheart…”

“Your references make some allusions to the quality of teaching, yes,” Tristan admitted. 

“But I’ve had experience of defence in the field, I suppose… I won the Triwizard tournament in my fourth year, and that meant facing dragons and sphinxes and stuff. And I started a club in my fifth year to teach defence,” Harriet said, “because the teacher wasn’t letting us do any practical work. But it wasn’t really duelling, it was mostly just making sure people knew the spells. Erm… well, yeah, it isn’t really until this year that I’ve done proper duelling in defence lessons. I enjoy it, and I’m good at it, I think.”

“Indeed?” Tristan asked with a  raised eyebrow. “What is it, do you think, that makes you ‘good’?”

Harriet frowned a bit. “I almost always win,” she replied, slightly nonplussed. “Maybe it’s because I don’t just think of the spells, I think of what’s around. I managed to beat someone recently by climbing onto the teacher’s lectern, because he wasn’t shielding high enough.” She decided it was best not to mention that she’d almost been killed ten minutes later...

Tristan said nothing, only shuffled the paper on his desk. Harriet could see her own handwriting- the essay she’d written on why she wanted to study Defence. “I see you’re predicted an ‘O’ for Defence though, that’s good… and an ‘E’ for Charms, Transfigurations and Potions. Only an ‘A’ for Herbology though- not your best subject, I take it?” he asked with a grin.

She’d had to suppress her surprise at knowing that Severus had predicted her an ‘E’. She was sure it would have been an ‘A’... or even maybe a ‘D’, had he been feeling less than charitable. Then again, he wasn’t bothering her so much in lessons now, although he certainly wasn’t friendly. “Herbology is… kind of boring,” she admitted. “I know that plants can be used as physical defence- thorns, and so forth, and they’re useful in potions, but pruning isn’t my favourite thing to do.”

“Ah, quite understandable,” Tristan agreed. “I will admit, we don’t find much use for it. It is by far more efficient to order in our potions ingredients than grow them ourselves. We have too much to do to wait for the flowers to grow!” He chuckled at his own joke. “Now, let me tell you what to expect should we offer you a place. As you are no doubt aware from the literature you will have received with your application form, we offer a two year course, at the end of which, you will be considered a Master of Defensive Magic. It used to be called the Fighting Arts, but after all the business with You-Know-Who, well… defence was just seen as a better naming convention. We run on longer terms than you will be used to- we have only a month off during the summer, and a week at Christmas and Easter. I will not lie: it is an intensive course. A muggle would take at least three, if not four years to do this level of course at one of their universities. We spend the first few weeks of the first year concentrating on theory, making sure everyone is at the same level. After that, time is divided into three main parts- lectures and going over advanced theory and technique on paper, spellcraft, which, as you can probably gather is the more practical element, and finally, a physical fitness portion, dealing with duelling as well as anatomy and physiology, and, of course, general fitness.”

Harriet nodded to show her understanding, and Tristan continued. “You will have two main teachers- I am nominally head of the department, and take the majority of the physical portions of the course. Professor Karl Leidner is our expert on theory. We share teaching on spellcraft, and do, of course, frequently bring in other speakers and experts. They may be from other courses within the colleges- our Charms counterparts are particularly useful, but equally, from outside as well. We do usually have a couple of visits from our Auror friends. We teach four days a week, from eight thirty in the morning to six in the evening, leaving a day for private projects, which form part of your final mark, and two days for the personal study which is expected. With me so far?”

He smiled encouragingly at Harriet, who did think this sounded a punishing regime, but nodded along. She supposed they were the best. “Excellent. Now, how about a little tour, and we’ll stop off in the sparring rooms and see how you do with your wand, eh?”

Back out of the cramped little office, Tristan led Harriet back into the rather grander marble corridor. “All of our teaching is done in this building,” he explained. “We have Alizon Hall, Charms are in Chattox hall, Redferne Buildings house the Potions department and Jennet Tower is Magical Sciences. Jennet’s is interesting, actually- the muggles know it as the Ashton Memorial, and see it as a much smaller building. There’s a butterfly house in their lower floor, quite a fascinating place. It’s a little out of the way, though- their students tend to apparate into town rather than face the hill!”

“Where’s this building?” she asked, although, really, she didn’t have a clue on the geography of Lancaster. 

“Rather more central,” he assured her, opening a door. “We’re in a part of the old castle. The larger part is now a muggle prison. Now, this is one of our classrooms. We have three, and all look much the same…”

He also showed her a library, and explained that the colleges also kept a central library- this grand room was just the specialist books. She was impressed: it wasn’t so much smaller than the library at Hogwarts. The potions laboratories were up next- five of them, all joined to a central large supply cupboard. They briefly disturbed a tall, wiry man, his skin as dark as Kingsley Shacklebolt's. He raised a hand in greeting and went back to his potion. More space could be arranged with the Potions department if necessary, Tristan explained. “When working on potions, our students tend to work individually, so we have to keep a few spaces,” he explained. “After all, you don’t want someone messing with your carefully brewed polyjuice just before it’s finished! Difficult potion that one!”

“I know,” Harriet agreed. “My friends and I brewed it in second year.”

Tristan looked impressed despite himself. “As a what, twelve years old? and you’re only getting an ‘E’ in Potions? I suppose the tales I hear of the strictness of the Hogwarts Potions Master are true.”

There were a handful of group study rooms, and, last, Tristan  waved her into an echoing hall. Benches lined one edge of the room: it reminded Harriet of her primary school gym, with a sprung wooden floor. “We have a number of smaller sparring rooms,” Tristan explained, gesturing to a row of solid doors at the end of the hall “and a small weights gym, but this is where most of your physical training will take place.” Faint music strained through from the direction of the doors to the sparring rooms. 

“Is there anywhere to fly?” Harriet asked. 

“There’s a nice protected field we use for outdoor duels sometimes. It’s well shielded, so students have used it to fly before.” Tristan shucked his outer robe, tossing it onto a bench. “Now,” he said. “How about showing me some spellwork? Get yourself comfortable, and then I’d like to see your best shield, please.”

He took Harriet through a few shields, and moved onto some offensive spells against his own shields. Eventually, he stopped barking spells at her and came to rest, his oddly thick and knobbly ebony wand at his side. “Right,” he said. “I want to see your best spell,” he told her. “Do I need to shield?”

Harriet had been hoping for this moment. She shook her head as she raised her wand: no shields were needed here. Lupin had reminded her that a patronus was advanced magic, and a corporeal one considered impressive, particularly at her age. They required magical strength, and conviction to cast. It also demonstrated a purity of heart that could not be faked. “ _ Expecto Patronum,”  _ she said firmly, thinking, for a change, of Robin. Of the warmth of his body tucked against hers, the way he tangled his fingers into the hair at the nape of the neck when he kissed her, the feeling of the cool brush of his hair against her cheek, the scent of him, slightly woody, reminding her of the smell of the twigs of a new broom and the green sharpness in the air in the forbidden forest. A burst of glittering white sprung from the end of her wand.

Harriet swallowed a gasp. She’d expected a stag; her big majestic stag. Instead, the cloud formed sharply into a wheeling, swooping bird. “Very nice,” Tristan said. “A falcon?”

“I… I don’t know,” Harriet said, wide eyed. “It’s never been a bird before.”

Tristan looked askance at her. “It’s the first corporeal patronus you’ve cast?”

Harriet shook her head, watching the bird fade. “I’ve cast a stag ever since I was thirteen,” she replied. 

“Thirteen!” Tristan said, aghast. “You’ve had a corporeal patronus since you were thirteen?”

“I had problems with dementors,” Harriet explained. “My defence teacher, Remus Lupin, taught me the spell.”

“The patronus is not a spell we see often,” Tristan admitted. “Not many of our students have had the opportunity to learn. If they have, it’s usually non-corporeal upon arrival here. Tell me, is this the first time you’ve cast one since your… change in sex?”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed with a frown, thinking back. “I suppose that must be it.”

“Well, I suppose it certainly counts as a life-changing event,” Tristan said, shrugging on his robe again. “Now, have you any other questions for me about the course? We have about ten minutes until my next interviewee is due to arrive.”

Harriet was almost surprised that he had another interview straight after hers. “How many people are you interviewing?” she asked, slipping her own robe back on and sitting to put her shoes back on. 

“Twenty-five, all told. Karl and I are splitting them,” he explained, holding open the door for her. “Today is a personal project day, so there aren’t many of our students about. You’re the first of five.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, feeling slightly crestfallen. A one-in-five chance of a place didn’t seem all that good to her.

“It’s quite a job to cut down to that few from our applications- we had two hundred and thirteen this year!” Tristan said. “We’ll let you know if we’ll be offering you a place or not in the next month or so.”

“Okay,” Harriet said, feeling like she should have something clever to say, something memorable. They were back in the hall into which she’d floo-ed. 

Tristan held out his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Harriet,” he said. “Perhaps we shall meet again in September.”

“I hope so,” Harriet replied.

He smiled. “Yes. Hepzibah, have you some floo powder for Miss Potter?”

The witch behind the desk offered a dish of powder and a smile to Harriet, who took a pinch with a murmured thanks. 

It didn’t seem so long since she had left the Head’s office at Hogwarts, and yet, a very long time indeed. She sunk down into the chair before the familiar desk in the empty room with a sigh. Would she be good enough?

  
  



	47. The falcon

The chatter of the class packing up was audible even in the corridor. Over the excitable second years, Harriet heard Lupin calling out that they weren’t to forget that their essays were due on Monday. Eventually, all the little heads (and a bizarrely tall Hufflepuff girl) had bobbed past her, and Harriet pushed the door to Lupin’s classroom open. He looked up from his bag. “Harriet!” he exclaimed, waving her in. “How did the interview go?”

“I’m not really sure,” Harriet said, crossing to his desk. She hopped up onto the corner of it, crossing her ankles as he legs dangled in mid-air. “He seemed to think Hogwarts was pretty rubbish.”

“Who was it?” Lupin asked.

“Someone called Tristan Lake,” she replied.

Lupin nodded. “He’s a well regarded expert,” he said. “We’ve never met- I move in rather different circles, I’m afraid, but he’s published a number of important papers and books over the last few years. I believe he was educated in Canada. Ilvermorny, I think the school is called.”

Harriet took a breath. “Can I show you something?” she asked.

“Of course,” Lupin said, sitting in his chair.

Harriet dropped back to the floor and pulled out her wand. “ _Expecto patronum_.”

Lupin sat blinking in stunned silence as the bird took a loop around the room before vanishing. “That’s… unexpected,” he said.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I don’t know what it is. Well, a bird, obviously…”

“Again,” Lupin requested, and Harriet sent her patronus out for another fly about. “Some kind of hunting bird,” Lupin said. “A bird of prey, but I don’t rightly know what. I never had any interest in falconry. Maybe Hagrid would know. He has rather more knowledge about animals.”

“But why?” Harriet asked. “Why the change?”

Lupin spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “A change in patronus is rare, very rare. It is usually seen only within romantic couples, where one may change to mimic the other, but it is by no means the indicator of true love. Many couples exist happily and with deep love, and maintain entirely different patronuses, if they have a corporeal one at all. Sometimes couples’ patroni match, like your parents.” He considered her for a moment. “I can only presume that yours has changed because you underwent a major upheaval in personal identity when your true sex was revealed.”

Harriet nodded along, but the explanation didn’t feel right, somehow. She still felt like the same person she’d always been: it was the world around her that had shifted. More likely, she’d simply never noticed how women in the wizarding world were treated: it had never impacted on her life when she was a boy. Lupin glanced at the clock on the wall. “Unless you hurry, you’ll be too late for lunch,” he said kindly. “I wouldn’t worry, Harriet. A change in patronus… it’s not a bad thing. It’s just a change.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harriet said with a weak smile.

Lupin patted her shoulder as he stood. “I’m sure you did very well at interview,” he assured her.

The great hall was bustling with noise and laughter when she slipped in. “Budge up,” she demanded of Ron, squeezing herself into the little space left on the bench.

Hermione squealed. “Harriet! You’re back! How did it go?”

Harriet snatched a sandwich just before the plates disappeared, cakes appearing instead. “Dunno,” she said, through a mouthful of cheese and ham and bread. She swallowed. “They didn’t seem impressed with Hogwarts, to be honest.”

“What?” Ron demanded, his own mouth stuffed with chocolate cake. “Hogwarts is the best school in the country.”

“It’s the only magical school in the country,” Hermione pointed out stiffly.

“So what, all their students come from Durmstrang or something?” Ron scoffed.

Harriet shrugged. “Have you ever heard of anyone from here going there?” she asked, almost rhetorically. “Apparently Flitwick did, but students, in the seven years we’ve been here? Everyone just wants a job in the ministry, or, let’s face it, most of them get married within a year or two, then the women stay home with the kids.”

She finished her sandwich and reached for a piece of cake instead. Ron shrugged. “Well, yeah. That’s what happens. So, you’ll be with a whole bunch of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons kids?”

“There are other schools, you know, Ronald,” Hermione snapped.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Not that I know of,” he complained.

“Funny that,” Hermione complained witheringly. “After all, you clearly know everything. There’s at least eleven Wizarding schools. The Salem Institute in Massachusetts, for a start- one of the most famous there is, even though it’s relatively young compared to places like Hogwarts and Durmstrang. There’s the Tahoe school of Witchcraft and Shamanism in the United States too. The Uagadou School in Uganda is the biggest in the world! There’s a school in Japan that specialises in wandless magic. I’m sure there are plenty more that I’ve never even heard of. Honestly. Ron, could you really think that wizards only existed in Europe?”

Ron looked somewhere between furious and shamefaced. He reached for another slice of cake. “I still reckon Hogwarts must be the best,” he grumbled. Hermione just gave a long-suffering sigh.

Harriet made a quick dash to her room to pick up her potions books before the lesson. She had been excused from lessons for the day, but she could imagine that Severus would be less than impressed with her should he discover that she was back at school and not in his lesson. Ron thought she was slightly nutty, but Harriet was also more conscious than ever that she really needed good NEWT marks. Even if she didn’t get into the Wizarding colleges- and the more she thought about sitting in Tristan’s office, the more she was convinced she wouldn’t- she needed to have those bits of paper to do anything. Maybe they’d still take her on for auror training, she mused, though the idea was no more palatable than it had been yesterday. But maybe if she trained as an auror, then she could leave and teach defence, just like she had planned…

She shook herself out of her musing, and joined Ron and Hermione, who were squabbling over some assignment or other in the corridor. They didn’t shut up all the way down to the potions classroom, and Harriet found herself really, really wishing for the airy gym-room at the Wizarding colleges, where it was quiet and smelled slightly of floor polish, and all she had to concentrate on was the spells. She almost considered turning back, skipping Potions, and fetching her broom, but, somehow, her legs just kept on towards the classroom.

Severus said nothing at seeing her- he did give a very slight nod when she looked at him. He simply barked at the class to get on with their ice potions. Harriet had wondered last week if it could be used in conjunction with floo powder- perhaps it could help Robin? Tentatively, she put up her hand.

“What, Potter?” Snape snapped. “You have forgotten already what you should do? How you have made it to seventh year, I shall never know.”

“No, Sir,” Harriet said boldly. “I was just wondering why the ingredients for an ice potion aren’t also in floo powder. After all, don’t you need something cooling in floo, so you don’t get burned?”

Snape slowly let out a long-suffering breath. “How, Potter, does it slip your mind so easily that you are a witch? Why should one wish to waste ingredients to cool a flame in floo powder when cooling charms on contact with fire are instinctive magic?”

“But what about muggles, Professor? Wouldn’t it be good if they could use the floo too? Or… or squibs.”

A muscle beneath Severus’ eye twitched. His face twisted. “Muggles, Potter?” he sneered. “Muggles and squibs? There is no reason to bring the lower life forms of the world into this.”

Harriet dipped her head over the lampranthus she was meant to be extracting the juice from, remaining silent after that. Severus swept back to his desk, arranging his robes about himself before he began to mark essays with furious swipes of his quill.

Harriet filed up to leave her labelled potion in the crate on his desk at the end of the lesson. “Stay behind, Miss Potter,” Severus drawled as she placed it in.

“Yes, Professor,” she replied dully. Was he going to be annoyed at her for bringing up squibs in his classroom? She returned to the workbench to clear away her cauldron and collect her bag. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she whispered to Hermione as Snape dismissed them. “I’ve got to stay back.”

Hermione nodded and gave a small smile before dragging Ron with her by the sleeve of his robes. Harriet heard a snicker as the rest of the class filed out, but she couldn’t be sure which of the gaggle of Slytherins it was. When Severus finally flicked his wand to slam the door shut, he silently gestured though to the storeroom. Only when he was in his own living room did the sneering mask break. He looked… sad. “How was your morning?” he asked, though he seemed distracted.

She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I’ll find out in a month or so, he said.”

Severus nodded. “Good,” he replied. “Harriet… I had some news this morning, news that affects Robin, and I wanted you to be aware, because I don’t know how he’ll react. Robin’s maternal grandmother died two days ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Harriet said. “Were… were they close?”

Severus sighed and crossed to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a small amount of firewhiskey. “I suppose Robin hasn’t spoken of his grandparents?” he asked, offering Harriet a glass of pumpkin juice.

“No…he doesn’t talk about any family. Well, I know his mum’s dead, but that’s basically it. I suppose I hadn’t thought to ask. I sort of forget that most people have grandparents.” After all, her dad’s parents had died before she was born, and on her mum’s side, her grandmother had died when she was three, and four for her grandfather. All she remembered of it was Aunt Petunia taking to her bed for two weeks.

Severus settled into his armchair. “I suppose, then you probably need some history.” He fell silent for a few minutes, staring into the fire. “Robin’s mother grew up in the same town as your mother and I. She was younger than us, a year below us in primary school. Annie was… a very innocent woman, in many ways. Naive, I suppose. Very sweet, very loving, but also very trusting. She trusted me, after all…” He dipped his head, his hair hiding his face in shadows. “Her family were very strict Christians. When Annie told them she was pregnant, well, I’m sure you can imagine their reaction. They sent her away, cast her out that very night with nowhere to go. She tried to take Robin to meet them shortly after his birth, but they claimed not to know her.”

“That’s awful,” Harriet said sadly. “I had no idea…”

“It was… upsetting for her,” Severus agreed, rubbing his head absently. “I had suspected that their reaction would be something of the type. I attempted to persuade her that it would be better to not continue with the pregnancy, but she was adamant that she wanted the child. I considered dosing her food with a potion, but… I could not bring myself to do it. I couldn not take away her happiness.”

“What happened?” Harriet asked. “Where did she go?”

“She stayed with a friends for almost a month,” Severus said, “until I was able to rent her a flat. She lived there with Robin until I started teaching, and I could buy her a house.

“You paid for her house?” Harriet asked, confused.

“I paid for everything,” Severus replied quietly, almost to himself. “To begin with, it was my penance: my penance for my stupidity. Then, it was because I could not bear to have Robin want for anything I could provide.”

All this time, all the time he’d been handing out detentions and snatching points away, making lives a misery for the majority of his students, he’d been doing anything he could to provide for his child; his secret, squib child. She remembered Robin’s memory of Severus helping him build a snowman, and she wondered when her teacher had found _time_. No wonder he always looked exhausted.

“That, however, is irrelevant to the situation at hand,” Severus sighed. “I wanted you to be aware first… as I mentioned, I have no idea how Robin will react. I should imagine that he will visit this evening, late, probably, to see how you are. If he does, I shall tell him then. The funeral is Saturday afternoon.”

“Shall I come back after dinner?” Harriet asked.

Severus shook his head sharply. “No, I would not expect him much before curfew. He has a Latin lecture until six on a Thursday this year, and he likes to do the translations straight afterwards.”

Harriet nodded, wondering how Severus knew. She didn’t really know when Robin’s lectures were. Did he keep a copy of his son’s timetable somewhere? Obediently, she returned to her own room.

After dinner, Hermione near demanded the quiet study-space of Harriet’s room. The fifth years beginning to worry about their OWLs were wearing her patience thin when she sat in the library- many seemed to believe that their head girl was there simply to sort out their Charms conundrums. Ron somehow made himself very scarce, but, for the first time, Imogen joined them, even without Ron there.

“Are you having a study club? May I join you?” Draco asked quietly from behind them. “Sorry- I couldn’t help hearing…”

Hermione smiled widely. “Of course,” she replied. Harriet felt a little grumpy- why did Hermione get to decide who came to Harriet’s room? She had avoided Draco since he’d questioned her sexual desires, other than when they were paired in class- it seemed to be happening a lot in Defence of late. He had behaved as the perfect gentleman since she’d told him to leave her alone. Polite, but somewhat distant. Aloof.

She supposed it couldn’t do any harm to have him around as long as they weren’t alone. Why did Hermione suddenly seem so fond of the Slytherin, though?

It only took five minutes before the curiosity got the better of Hermione. She carefully put down her quill and turned the full force of her attention to Harriet. “So,” she began, “how was it really? What did you have to do?”

Draco looked up from his own work. “How did what go?” he wanted to know.

Harriet sighed, pushing her own books away from her. “I had an interview at the Wizarding colleges for Defence,” she replied.

Draco whistled appreciatively under his breath. “The Colleges are the best in Europe, if not the world,” he pointed out. “Mother wanted me to apply for Magical Sciences, but Father was… less keen.”

“He didn’t think you’d get in?” Hermione asked sympathetically.

“Not that,” Draco said with a smirk. “Failure is not a possibility for a Malfoy. He simply has other career plans for me,” he finished.

Yeah, like being a Death Eater, Harriet thought wryly. That was strange, she realised… no matter how friendly she was to Draco now, no matter how many friendly duels in Defence lessons, someday she may still find him at her wandpoint for real.  “It was… odd,” she said eventually. “He basically told me that Hogwarts was useless, that they didn’t take many girls. He seemed happy with my duelling, though…” She wondered if she should say anything about her patronus with Draco and Imogen there. Most people knew that her patronus had been a stag, so her new bird could be useful as a secret thing… but then again, it wasn’t as if hiding her patronus would give her any advantage in battle. “The weirdest thing is, my patronus has changed.”

“Changed?” Hermione asked. “Changed how? Oh, oh, it’s a doe now, right?” she grinned widely, sure that Harriet had finally ‘found herself’.

Instead of explaining, Harriet just pulled her wand from her sleeve and cast. Hermione stared dumbfounded at the soaring animal. Imogen smiled- she had known the stag too, having been in the DA. “Isn’t your broom a peregrine?” Draco asked absently, watching the bird as it swooped to the ground.

“Yeah. Why?” Harriet asked with a frown.

“It’s just odd, that your broom and your patronus match.”

“You know what it is?” Harriet asked as it faded, her mind no longer maintaining the spell.

“Yeah,” Draco said with a shrug. “It’s a peregrine falcon. They have a distinctive stoop.”

“A stoop?” Harriet asked, thinking that it had been flying, not standing, so how could it have been stooping?

“The way it dives,” Draco explained. “I had a peregrine for hunting- they’re quite well-behaved, as falcons go, so they’re popular for children. They’re known for their agility- they can take out fast prey.”

“It’s a nice analogy,” Imogen offered. “You are fast, on your broom, and you’re well known for making mad, last second dives and pulling up just in time.”

Harriet shrugged, bending back over her work. “S’pose so,” she said. “Has one of you got the Practical Transfigurations book from the library, by the way? The one by Changechild? I haven’t been able to find it all week.”

“No one can,” Hermione groused as she settled back to her work. “I reckon the Ravenclaws have nicked it.”

It was getting late, and Harriet was finally alone when her fireplace spluttered and a paper aeroplane popped out, floating along at fireplace height for a few seconds before descent brought it somewhere in the region of the coffee table. . _‘Still awake?’_ the note read. She smiled, and reached for her floo powder pot.

Robin was curled on the sofa, and, oddly, Severus sat beside him. “But it would mean going into church, wouldn’t it, for the funeral?” Robin asked his father.

“Hey,” Harriet offered, settling on the floor next to Robin. He smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

“You are permitted to enter a church, Robin,” Severus pointed out dryly. “The world will not end, and the roof will not cave in. You have been in a church before- you were christened, after all. You attended with your mother when you were small. And for her funeral.”

Robin wrinkled his nose. “And the memory of Sunday School will haunt me to my dying day,” he complained.

“It’s up to you. I can arrange a floo connection for you if you decide to go.”

Robin shrugged. “It’d be kind of weird, you know,” he said. “I mean, I never met her.”

“I understand,” Severus said quietly. “But she was your grandmother, so I would also understand if you were to find the situation upsetting.”

“I guess it’s just one of those things that happens,” Robin said with a sigh. “But church? It feels wrong now. I’m not Christian.” He looked down at Harriet as if in sudden realisation. “Are you Christian?” he asked.

“Erm, I don’t think I’m anything,” she replied. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon went to church at Christmas, but I never went- they always said I’d show them up.”

“You were christened,” Severus said quietly. “But neither of your parents were churchgoers.”

Harriet filed this information about her babyhood away for later consideration. “I didn’t think religion was really a thing in the wizarding world,” she said.

Severus gave slight smile. “Have you never seen Professor McGonagall trek to the Hogsmeade church every Sunday?” he asked. “Albus, of course, prefers to be difficult and subscribes to an odd combination of Christian and Druidic practices that seem to alter depending on his needs. Professors Flitwick and Sinistra both follow the old religion.”

“The old religion?” Harriet asked quietly, leaning back and closing her eyes as Robin twined his fingers through her hair.

“It is probably best described as magical paganism,” Severus said. “It is the reverence of nature and magic.”

“And you?” she asked, curious.

Severus inclined his head. “I, too, subscribe to the old ways,” he informed her, “though I am no great practitioner. I have not attended a Sabbat in many years, let alone an Esbat.”

Harriet had opened her mouth to ask what a Sabbat was, and an Esbat, but she thought better of it when she realised she would probably sound just like Hermione. Instead, she tipped her head right back to look up at Robin. “Are you going home tonight?” she asked.

“Would you like me to stay?” he asked softly. She nodded, and he smiled. “I’ll stay, then, but I have to get up early. Philosophy seminar at nine. Shall we go to bed?”

“Yes, please,” she murmured.

She was tucked into bed by the time he was ready. He’d taken to leaving a toothbrush in Harriet’s bathroom, she’d noticed. He curled himself against her. “Why are you wearing pyjamas?” he asked in a low voice. “It’s so much nicer feeling your skin.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. His hands tugged insistently at her top until his hand cupped her breast. She gasped lightly as he tweaked her nipple. “Robin… are you sure you want to… I mean, you just heard about your grandmother…”

“I don’t want to talk about dead people right now, thanks,” he said. “I would like to enjoy you, however, if you’d get out of the infernal pyjamas.”

She did her best to hide her grin as she sat up to pull her top over her head, then arched her hips to shuck the bottoms. “Better,” he breathed, kissing a trail from behind her ear down to the ridge of her collarbone. He rolled first one nipple between his fingers, then the other. She tried to turn over to kiss him, to caress the growing heat of his erection, but he tightened his arm around her. “Stay,” he muttered, reaching down to push her upper leg up until it was nestled against her chest. He pressed his hips forwards, and the heaviness of his cock rested against her thighs. A slick of his fingers through her pussy drew a gasp from her, and an appreciative moan from him. “You’ve always so wet these days,” he informed her. She was, of course, well aware of this fact- she could feel it every time she saw him, or at other, truly inconvenient, moments.

His index and middle fingers bracketed her clit, drawing back and forth torturously slowly. “Robin… please… I want to touch you,” she begged.

“I want you to touch me too,” he said. “I want to be inside you, be touched by this part of you…” and then, a finger slipping just inside her sodden entrance. She let out a ragged moan as he found the sensitive spot just inside. “Good girl,” he murmured, withdrawing his finger and positioning his cock at her entrance instead. She pushed backwards, and he took pity on her, slipping inside her clinging heat. “My kitten,”

The position didn’t give much opportunity for hard, deep thrusts, Harriet discovered, but he brushed tantalisingly against her sensitive walls with each slow press in. Even better, he snaked his hand around her hip again to stroke at her clit, setting her pussy fluttering lightly against him.

It took a long time before he stiffened behind her, pressing in as far as he could go with a small groan, his pleasure a spreading warmth inside her belly..

They were still joined as she fell asleep, safe and warm and loved.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rowling played a joke on me with this chapter- she put out the names of other wizarding schools literally the day after I had written this chapter, and I had to change my carefully made up ones!


	48. A soggy practice

“Ginny, stop fucking about,” Harriet snapped, nosediving her broom to snatch up the quaffle that Ginny had dropped- again. She’d watched the redhead catch the quaffle- and then open her hands, releasing it. There was no fumble, it was an easy catch. Was Ginny really deliberately letting them go?

Ginny shrugged. “My hands are cold,” she informed Harriet flatly. With a visible huff of breath, Harriet yanked out her wand and cast a warming spell on Ginny’s gloves. “You’re a witch,” she said coldly. “Act like it.”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” Ginny snapped.

“Gin,” Ron called warningly from the goalposts. Play around them had completely stopped. Harriet said nothing, just held out the quaffle to Ginny on one upturned hand. With a sudden scowl, Ginny reached out, but instead of taking the ball, she smacked it off Harriet’s hand and back to the ground, ten feet below. 

“Go back to the castle, Weasley,” Harriet said through gritted teeth. She wanted to shout, but she knew that teachers shouting never had the effect that Severus could have with a low, silky word, so she kept her voice quiet, quiet enough that only Ginny heard her. 

“You chucking me off the team?” Ginny asked, much louder than Harriet had spoken, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. Anna gasped.

“I didn’t say that, Ginny,” Harriet explained patiently. “What I did say was that you should go back to the castle. We will talk about this later.”

Ginny snorted and sped off in the direction of the forbidden forest instead. Harriet shook her head. She didn’t much care where Ginny went right now, she just wanted her off the field. The raised her voice so the other plays could hear her. “We’re continuing without Ginny for now,” she called, swooping down again to scoop up the quaffle and toss it in Linda’s direction. “I’ll take her place as chaser.” She zoomed back up as the nervous chaser caught it and continued, trying to use dives and feints to confuse the keeper. Harriet had had to talk Ron out of pretending to be a complete idiot and not recognising a goal attempt when he saw one, he’d gone lumbering off in the opposite direction instead of defending. The point, she explained, was to try to outsmart the keeper, and none of the keepers were likely to be particularly stupid. She had to hold back from saying that none of the  _ other _ keepers were particularly stupid, which she knew wasn’t fair. She was resenting leaving her warm bed on a snowy sunday morning only to deal with a rebellious Ginny, but they’d only just scraped a win against Hufflepuff last weekend. They needed No matter her insistence otherwise, Harriet hadn’t been at full form for the match, still a little achy when she dived, and slightly lightheaded by the end of the three-hour game.

Almost an hour later, she trudged back to her room. A stinging sleety snow had driven through in the last fifteen minutes, but she had pushed the team through it to finish off their last laps of the pitch. She regretted it by the time she returned to her room, soaked and shivering. Robin looked up from the bed as she stumbled in, catching her foot on the lip of the portrait.

He gave her a concerned look and climbed out of bed. “You’re freezing,” he said when he tried to hug her.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, unfastening her sodden robes and letting them drop to the floor. “I just need a hot shower.” Her fingers fumbled with the buckles of her arm guards. Robin gently pushed her numb digits aside, working the leather through the buckles. “Not that one,” Harriet snapped, pulling her arms away.

“Tell me which ones, then,” Robin said gently, not rising to her anger. “Let me look after you, kitten. Do I unfasten this one?” he asked, pointing to the elbow ties. 

“No… just the top one now,” she said grudgingly, letting him unfasten it and slide the leather gauntlet off her arm. He moved to the other side, drawing it down her arm. 

“You’re sodden,” he said, steering her over to the bed so he could pull off her close fitted boots. “Don’t you call off practice when the weather’s bad?”

“We’d never get any practice in if we did that,” Harriet replied, trying not to let her teeth chatter. “It’s always cold and wet from November through to March.”

“Why not have some kind of weather-repelling magic on the pitch?” Robin asked, gripping her heel as he slid the unlaced boot off her leg. “Even your socks are wet, Harriet,” he complained, peeling the offending fabric off and gripping the arch of her foot. “Hot bath for you, I think. I hope the rest of your team are doing the same.”

She nodded. “Gryffindor baths are always full after practice. Everyone else knows to stay away for at least an hour.” She tugged her skin-tight shirt over her head and reached behind her back to loosen the hooks on her bra as Robin finished taking off her other shoe and sock. 

She shed her leggings on the way to the bathroom, hopping first on one foot then the other and drawing a grumble from Robin, who had to steady her to stop her falling over. He set three bath taps going and pointed to the jacuzzi-sized tub. “In,” he demanded, sounding every bit like Severus. 

“All right, all right, I’m going!” she replied, clambering down the three steps and hissing as the hot water met her chilled flesh. He yanked his t-shirt over his head, mussing his sleep-tousled hair even more. She couldn’t help giggling as most of it crossed to the wrong side of his head, standing comically over his crown. He shook his head, returning it to a usual silky state. She was jealous: her hair would have just ended up in a giant knot if she did that. She sniffed the air as he hooked his underwear off his legs. “What’re the bubbles?” she asked. She didn’t actually use the bath much, not having time to do more than shower most days. Lounging in the bath was a rare luxury.

“Rosemary,” he said, slipping into the water beside her, “because it soothes joints and minimises aches. And lavender for relaxation.”

“You know magical uses for herbs and plants?” she asked. 

He guided her onto his lap, cradling her against his chest. She settled her head happily onto his shoulder. “Of course,” he replied. “I am the son of a potions teacher, after all. Both are used in healing potions, due to their anti-inflammatory properties, and lavender will fight infection as well. Rosemary, in small doses, is used in fertility potions, but if it’s used with pennyroyal, it’s an abortifacient. It’s also common at weddings in the old ways, as it represents fidelity and fertility.”

He fell silent following his recitation, absently rubbing her back. The bath filled; the taps shut off on their own. At length, Harriet voiced something she’d wondered about for days. Now seemed as good a time as any to ask, when they were warm and enjoying the water, and he’d brought up the old ways. “You said you weren’t a Christian,” she began. “Are you religious?”

“I’m a bit like my dad, I suppose,” he replied. “I sort of follow the old religion. I’m not part of a gathering or anything, and I can’t say I much want to be, if they’d even take someone without magic. But magic… there’s something more at work in our world that science can’t explain. My mother said that everything was God’s plan… but her God never accepted magic. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’. How could I possibly subscribe to a religion that damns me for the blood in my body?”

When he put it like that, Harriet couldn’t help but agree. She slipped down in the water to lean her head back, wetting her hair. It only took a touch of her wand to summon her shampoo to her- like most, if not all, magical people, her wand was always in reach, even if at the side of the bath. Robin took the bottle from her, massaging it into her scalp with smooth motions. She sighed in contentment. “Rinse,” he murmured, guiding her head back, then swishing her hair through the water to wash away the lather. Harriet had given up on the idea of protesting his attentions: it was just nice to feel his hands on her. 

“Where’s your conditioner?” he asked when she was upright again. 

“Erm, in the cupboard,” Harriet said. “I don’t really use it, but they sold me some when I had my hair cut… Why, do you use it?”

He kissed her damp temple, and she could feel the quirk of his lips. “I think almost everyone with long hair does,” he said. “Can you summon it, or shall I fetch it?”

Obediently, Harriet summoned the almost full bottle and handed it to Robin. She’d tried it twice, and thought nothing was any different, so just stopped. He poured a generous dollop into his palm and started finger-combing it through her hair. She leaned back to wash it out of her hair, but he stopped her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Give it time to work,” he instructed.

“Why?” she asked, puzzled.

“Because it needs to sink into your hair to have any effect,” he explained. “You can probably make something much better than this- most muggle stuff is inferior to simple potions. Too many chemicals.” He twisted her hair into a knot with practiced hands, and she found herself feeling quite inadequate. Her boyfriend knew more about taking care of hair than she did! She supposed it explained why his was always so soft, though.

“So,” she asked, leaning back against him and smearing conditioner on her shoulder, “What shall we do in the meantime?” she asked in a way she thought was seductive, her hand stroking over his smooth chest under the water. She couldn’t have failed to notice the solidness against the side of her thigh. 

Robin smiled, knowing exactly what she was aiming for. “Well, we could warm you up some more,” he replied, deadpan, though she’d long since stopped shivering in the warm water and now steamy bathroom. His hand lightly traced the curve of her waist beneath the water as he dipped her head to the side to kiss her. She let out a soft moan of contentment into the kiss, her hand slipping down between them to brush against his erection. He dropped his head back with a low hiss. “Merlin, kitten, why does if feel so good when you touch me?” he wanted to know. 

“Do we have too much sex?” Harriet gasped as he pinched one of her nipples, sending a sudden shock of arousal straight down between her legs. She wrapped her hand around his cock, running from the swollen tip down to the base. She squeezed.

“If neither of us is rubbed raw, then the answer is no,” he replied hoarsely before hoisting her up to straddle his lap and pulling her in for another kiss. His hands against her waist and back made her breath catch even more than the kiss. A touch from Robin could make her realise that a part of her body she never gave any thought to usually could become one huge erogenous zone. His fingers traced little circles in the small of her back before dropping to cup her bottom. He squeezed, eliciting another gasp. She nipped at his collarbone, her hand gripping his shaft tightly. 

Her wetness had very little to do with the magically-heated water. It didn’t take much wordless coaxing from Robin to persuade her up onto her knees, settling over the spire of his cock. His fingers spread her lips, and the warmth of the water swirled against her. It didn’t take him long to realise that she was quite wet enough for his purposes.

The first moment of penetration, as she spread around him, always resulted in a gasp or groan from both of them. Harriet wiggled experimentally in the new, unfamiliar position. She let herself drop, just a little too fast, and gulped as he pressed against the end of her channel, the funny lump she’d learned was her cervix. It felt odd, a strange, crampy sharp pain that only lasted a moment. “Go at your own pace,” Robin instructed huskily, his grip gentle on her hips; guiding, not forcing. She nodded, and rose on her knees, enjoying the pull of his flesh in hers. 

She didn’t really notice one of his hands dropping at first, concentrating on the rise and fall of her hips, trying not to splash too much. She noticed when a finger ran between the cheeks of her bottom, though, coming to rest over that secret little hole. She tensed instinctively, not even breathing. “Don’t worry, Harriet,” he breathed. “I won’t hurt you.” 

He stroked gently, not even attempting to penetrate her. The muscles of her bottom quivered, every touch in such an intimate place sending spikes of…  _ something _ into her belly.“What if… what if I’m dirty?” she asked quietly, completely still, but breathing again.

“We’re in the bath. You’re clean,” he explained.

“Not… inside.” she said, blushing. “There are charms, I think…”

“Shhh,” he soothed. “You don’t need charms, not yet. I’m not going to penetrate you, not like this, not there. Water is in no way enough lubricant for that. I just wanted to see if you liked it.” He took his finger away, resting his hands on her hips and encouraging her to move again. He dipped his head to take a hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking just enough to make her feel it.

“I did,” she whispered after a few bounces. 

“You did, what?” he asked, releasing her nippe and looking up with a hint of a sparkle in his eyes.

“I did like you touching me like that…”

“Like this?” he asked, still playing innocent, running his finger down the cleft of her buttocks again until he was resting against the hole… and firmly pressed inwards, slightly shocked when the tip of his finger actually breached the ring of muscle. The slide of his fingertip against the smooth flesh inside her sent a quiver of sensation through Harriet. She felt oddly full, and so very vulnerable in that second. She gasped, surprised at the intrusion, clenched down. “Ah, fuck, Harriet,” he gasped, the press of her muscles milking his orgasm from him. He flung his head back against the side of the bath, his free hand gripping her hip tightly. 

She leaned forward onto his chest, hearing his heart hammer in his chest. “Fuck, you’re tight when you do that,” he breathed, pulling his finger from her arse as gently as he could. “Go on, into the shower with you, and rinse off your hair.”

She pulled herself up and climbed out of the bath, trying not to pout. Her legs were a little shaky, and she felt a bit put out that Robin had had his pleasure, but she hadn’t come… She stumbled to the shower, turning the spray on full and thanking the world for magical showers, where the water ran hot immediately. 

She heard the bath begin to drain as Robin climbed out, and a moment later, he was slipping behind the glass wall of the shower cubicle with her. She ducked her head beneath the showerhead. When she reemerged, he captured her in a kiss, and she couldn’t help returning it, even if she was a little put out that he didn’t seem interested in her pleasure. She stretched onto her tiptoes, the water streaming down her back and her arms wound about his neck.

“All done?” Robin asked, barely breaking the kiss.

“Yeah,” she murmured back, and he stepped back out the shower, his arms still around her middle guiding her with him. She giggled as they awkwardly ‘danced’ over to the towel rail, where Robin draped an oversized bath towel around them and started rubbing. He even knew how to twist a towel into a turban for her head, a skill she’d attempted to master after having seen Ginny sport one after a shower, but had failed miserably. She contributed a drying charm, which was always much more effective than towels at getting all the awkward bits dry. 

Back in the bedroom, Robin bent over the bag he’d dumped the night before when he arrived. He’d never brought a bag before- usually, he went back through to Severus’ rooms to change, but Harriet could see why he’d get bored of that. She crossed to her wardrobe and crouched to pull clean underwear from the drawer. 

Robin brushed a hand down her back. “If you’re willing, there’s something i’d like to try, kitten,” he said, his tone low and soft. When she turned to him, he was holding out some mismatched silky scarves. She frowned, confused. “I… I wondered how you might feel about being tied up,” he said nervously. “Just your hands, maybe…”

Considering she’d just admitted that she liked the alien sensation of a finger up her bum, she thought that he didn’t have much to be nervous about, admitting that he wanted to tie her up. “What will you do, when you’ve tied me up?” she asked. She was surprised at the tightening in her belly that had nothing to do with nerves at the mental image of her tied splayed across the bed.

“Something nice, I promise,” he replied, looking a bit less apprehensive. She wasn’t saying no! She offered her wrists in front of her, together, and he smiled. “Over on the bed, kitten,” he instructed. 

The scarves were soft when he knotted them around her wrists. He’d bought them second-hand, he’d explained, just wanting something that wouldn’t injure her, and nothing so tacky as the pink fluffy handcuffs that were proudly displayed in the sex shops of the Northern quarter. She decided it was best not to ask where or what the Northern quarter was at this particular moment as he leaned over her to tie each scarf to the top posts of the bed. Her breath hitched as he arms were pulled up, pushing her breasts out and leaving her feeling very exposed.  She tugged experimentally. She could slip out of the bonds if she wanted, she thought, so she didn’t pull too hard. 

Her breath hitched in her throat, and Robin settled on his haunches next to her. “You okay?” he asked huskily, stroking her cheek.

“Yeah,” she replied with a little grin. “Looks like you are too.” Without the use of her hands to gesture, she simply raised her head and nodded towards his lap. He was hardening again.

“I can’t help it around you,” he informed her, before leaning forward to kiss her deeply, his tongue caressing hers.

Before long, he’d moved down, nipping and suckling at her breasts. She pressed up towards him hungrily, finding that having her arms tied above her head was something of an annoyance. She’d normally be touching him, even if just to bury her fingers in his hair. She felt more helpless than she’d expected. She tugged impatiently at the scarves, and he shushed her, moving down the bed. “Legs open, Harriet,” he instructed quietly, running soft touches up her thighs when she eagerly complied. 

If she thought she’d felt exposed before, she was unprepared for this sensation. He settled between her knees, meaning she’d struggle to close her legs again if she wanted to. He looked up the length of her body- she could meet his eyes if she raised her head. He smiled at her, then used two firm fingers to spread her pussy open. A solitary finger running up from her entrance to her clit had her bucking her hips up to meet his touch.

He teased her for what felt like forever, with little touches, eventually moving to pleasuring her with his mouth, raising her hips with his hands, but pulling away when she was just on the edge of orgasm until she was crying out in frustration. Finally, he took pity on her, sealing his lips around her swollen clit and thrusting two fingers inside her, letting her fly over the edge. Her muscles were still fluttering when he pressed her knees back to her chest, high and wide, easily pushing his engorged cock into her, still mercilessly teasing at her clit. 

She may have screamed as the second climax hit her, and he grinned in pleasure to know that he could wring such a reaction from her.

Half an hour later, they’d cleaned up again, and finally got dressed. Robin pulled something else out of his bag, and Harriet was almost afraid of what his next idea was, until he handed her a hardback book. “If you get some tea, I’ll read you a story,” he bargained. She looked down at the title and giggled. “ _ Winnie the Pooh _ ?” she asked. “This is the story with Christopher Robin?”

“The very same,” he said seriously. “Tea?”

He was halfway through reading her the story of Pooh’s exploits in attempting to gain some honey when Harriet’s wards chimed. Robin stopped reading. “What was that?” he asked.

“My wards,” she explained. “They work as a doorbell too, if someone wants to visit.” She bit her lip in consternation. “I don’t know who it is.”

He kissed her and slipped his arm away from her. “I’ll go through to Dad’s,” he said quietly. “Come and get me when you’re ready.”

In the few seconds it took him to cross the room and vanish through the floo, the chime sounded again. Harriet scrambled to the door, wishing Hermione had included some way of opening it without having to get up. Then again, maybe she didn’t want Harriet to be ambushed in her bed by a marauding Slytherin who she’d let in by mistake, thinking it was a friend. Perhaps some announcement about who was there would have been better.

“Hermione?” Harriet asked, opening the door on her bushy-haired friend. “What’s wrong?” For Hermione was chewing at her lower lip, her hands worrying nervously at the strap of her bag. 

“Can I come in?” Hermione asked, raising a hand to brush a stray wisp of hair from her face. Harriet stepped back, leaving space for Hermione to enter. As soon as Harriet shut the door, Hermione turned back to her. “Is… is Robin not here today?” she asked, sounding almost breathless.

“We didn’t know who was outside. He’s gone back through to Severus’ rooms. Hermione, what’s the matter?”

Hermione began wandering around the room. She straightened a pile of books on Harriet’s desk, closed a half-open drawer. “I was supposed to meet someone,” she began hesitantly. “I was supposed to meet Sev… uh, I mean Snape. To, erm, borrow a book. He said he’d be in, but he’s not. And I’m… I’m worried.”


	49. Hell hath no fury...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short-ish chapter for you... and on Monday, I'm planning a nice, long chapter with some exciting bits to mark my half-century of chapters!!!

“Hermione…” Harriet asked her unexpected visitor, “are you, well, seeing Severus? In a romantic sort of way?” Hermione groaned, and flung herself down into a chair. It was as much confirmation as Harriet needed. “I overheard, you see,” she said. “A couple of weeks ago, I overheard you talking to him. About whether he was a kind lover.”

Hermione had buried her head in her hands. “Please, Harriet… please. You have to understand. The boys our age… well, they’re just so  _ young _ ! And they’re frightened of me, of my intelligence. They… they make fun of me, or if I do actually get to a point where I could sleep with someone, they misunderstand what I want. Severus… he understands. And he said to meet him in his classroom an hour ago, but he’s not there. I’ve tried going down to his rooms, but there’s no answer, and he’s not the type to miss a meeting…”

“Let’s go and see if he’s there,” Harriet said matter-of-factly. There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask, but it didn’t seem fair, somehow. Hermione was in too much of a state. She’d give anything away if Harriet would help her find Severus. She gave Hermione a pinch of floo powder, and tossed her own into the flames.

Robin had sprawled across almost the entirety of the sofa, Sheba purring loudly across his lap. He looked up to smile at Harriet, though he looked confused when Hermione stepped through the fire behind her. He scrambled to his feet, dislodging a most unimpressed cat. “What…” he began, but Harriet cut him off.

“Is your dad here?” she asked.

“No…” he replied. He reached for a note on the coffee table. “He left a note. He was summoned, last night, at about eight.”

“Is he normally gone this long?” Hermione asked fearfully. “If he went at eight, it’s been almost twenty hours. What if… what if he’s hurt?” Or the unspoken possibility, dead.

“He was gone for four days once,” Robin assured her. “And that’s just that I know of. He could have been gone longer, and I just wasn’t here to realise.” He tried to sound calm, collected, but, just like every time his dad was summoned, there was an icy weight in his stomach, and he couldn’t help thinking that Severus may never come back.

Hermione stole a glance at Severus’ armchair, and Robin knew that she was probably thinking the same thing as him. “Worrying never helps,” he said gently. “It would be best just to do whatever else will take your mind off it. Treat it as a normal sunday afternoon.”

“I can’t,” Hermione whispered. “He said I had meet him, or, or… I’d be in trouble.”

“Aww, Merlin,” Robin grumbled. “I am in no way old enough or mature enough to be having this conversation. Sit down, Hermione. Harriet, could you make some tea, please?”

Biting her lip, Hermione sat. She seemed so very...un-Hermione, Harried mused as she directed a stream of water from her wand into the kettle and swung it by the fire to heat. Normally, Hermione always had the answer, was always desperate to share her views. Now, though, she was quiet, and, though clearly worried about Severus, she was calm, centred. Robin, on the other hand, was tense. Harriet spooned a scoop of tea leaves into the big brown teapot that lived on Severus’ hearth, and went to curl up next to Robin. He petted her knee absently. “Hermione… would I be right in saying you’re in a sexual relationship with my dad?”

What an odd turn of phrase, Harriet mused. A sexual relationship? Not just a relationship? “Yes,” Hermione replied softly, her hands in her lap. That really didn’t sound Hermione-like at all. Far too quiet and subdued.

“How long?” Robin wanted to know. 

“Only two weeks since he agreed,” Hermione admitted. “I know it doesn't sound long, but…” her voice trailed off, unsure.

“But everything has to start somewhere,” Robin finished for her kindly. “And he’s told you that if you don’t meet him at the appointed time, you’ll be punished, yes?” he pressed. Hermione nodded. Robin shook his head with an indulgent smile. “He’s not as unreasonable as he’d like you to believe, Hermione. He won’t expect you to manage the impossible. He is not here, therefore you cannot meet him. Far better that you leave a note to say that you tried, and I’m sure he won’t hold it against you.”

The kettle whistled, and Harriet carefully poured the water into the pot. “Why, Hermione?” she wanted to know. “He’s old enough to be your dad.”

Hermione smiled a weak smile at that. “My dad’s almost fifteen years older than him,” she said. “I was a late baby. I need that, though. I need a man who knows what he’s doing, not a boy.”

Harriet glanced up at Robin. “There are good men closer to your age,” she protested. “What about someone like Neville? He’s sweet. And Ron’s known you forever- you can’t say he doesn’t know you.”

“I have needs that can’t be met by Ron, or Neville, or any of the boys I know,” Hermione replied with a wrinkle of her nose. “Seriously, Harriet, can’t you see that there’s some difference between Neville and Severus?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Severus is much nicer than he makes out, but I think I’d still prefer Neville.”

Robin snorted, which Harriet thought rather rich, given that he didn’t even know Neville. “Harriet, remember your book?”

“Yeah,” she said, then it suddenly dawned on her. Hermione had said she didn’t expect Severus to be a gentle lover… and had said that she’d be punished if she didn’t meet him. She didn’t mean punished in the schoolgirl sense, with a detention or lost points. She meant he would spank her, or any of the other kinds of punishment the book had detailed. Harriet could feel herself blushing, her cheeks and Hermione’s matching nicely. “You’re  a submissive?” she asked, barely above a whisper. Hermione nodded, her cheeks flaming even more. “But… you’re so sure of yourself. You’re always in control!” Harriet burst out. 

“Most of the time, it feels like I’m in charge of everything and everyone,” Hermione whispered. “I want someone else to take control of something. I want to be accountable to someone, instead of just being told I’m brilliant and I’m better than everyone else. I want someone who’s going to push me to be better.”

“Well,” Robin said. “You picked the right man for that. He’s a complete control freak- I don’t know anyone else whose parents keep track of their uni assignments and question them constantly. He goes ballistic if I get less than a 65 in anything, and I get the ‘disappointed’ treatment if it’s less than a first.”

Harriet looked at him blankly. “A first what?” she asked. 

“First class- basically over 70 percent. A 2:1 is over 60, and a 2:2 over 50.” She still looked confused. He sighed. “It’s to do with the kind of degree you get at the end. It’s not really important here. Hermione, seriously, he can’t and won’t punish you for something beyond your control.”

“What would he even do?” Harriet asked curiously. 

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Robin cut across instead. “Don’t ask questions you don’t actually want the answers to, kitten,” he warned, and Hermione snapped her mouth shut. Harriet handed out cups of tea.

Robin tried to engage Hermione in light conversation whilst she drank her tea. He asked about her favourite lessons, and all three were able to laugh about Hermione’s hatred of brooms, indeed, of flying in general. 

Hermione was trying to explain the basics of arithmancy to Robin when the door to Severus’ quarters snicked open. Hermione jumped about a foot in the air. “I do not recall saying,” Severus said softly, “that you may entertain your friends in my sitting room whilst I feed the Dark Lord false information to assure your safety, Harriet.”

Harriet and Robin stopped like rabbits in proverbial headlights. It was Hermione that moved, acted, said.

She dropped gracefully from the chair, sinking to her knees. “They know, Sir,” she said softly, her eyes on the ground.

“They know what, Miss Granger?” he barked, his tone harsh. Given how she was sitting, Hermione thought that much should be obvious.

“They know about us, Sir,” she replied. “I was worried when I couldn’t find you.”

Severus slipped fingers still cold from the outside air beneath Hermione’s chin, forcing her to look up him. He twitched his head in a nod, then released her and rounded on Harriet and Robin. “Not one word of this goes beyond these four walls,” he hissed, mostly for Harriet’s benefit. “My personal life and my professional one must be kept utterly apart, do you understand?”

“Of course,” Robin said smoothly. Harriet only nodded furiously. She could just imagine Ron’s reaction to this… and she certainly didn’t want to witness it. 

Severus narrowed his eyes at them, then turned, his voluminous black robes swirling. “Into the bedroom, Hermione,” he commanded. Gracefully, she stood and went without so much as a look at Harriet and Robin. They were left just staring at each other in disbelief at the sudden turn of events.

Harriet spent the next couple of days trying not to think about what had happened. The last thing she needed whenever she faced Hermione over breakfast was to remember her on her knees at Severus’ feet. She looked forward to quidditch practice, relishing the chance for the flight and the freedom.

On Tuesday evening, Harriet was left glancing at her watch. Practice should have started ten minutes ago, and only she, Ron and Dean were here. Dean shifted awkwardly on his broom. “Maybe we should just pack it in,” he suggested.

Harriet snapped her broom around on him. “Do you know where they are?” she asked. He looked down at the ground, five feet below, instead of meeting her eyes.  “Dean?” Harriet questioned warningly.

He took a deep breath. “Ginny… she said earlier that practice was off, that you’d told her to spread the word. I thought you must have just changed your mind when Roni started getting ready to come out.”

Harriet cursed under her breath. “Fine,” she said. “Next time someone other than me tells you practice is cancelled, Dean, it’ll be because I’m in the hospital wing, and can’t tell you. If I’m not being held captive by Madam Pomfrey, I’ll decide what’s on and what’s not, and don’t believe anyone else.”

“Sorry, Harriet,” Dean said shamefacedly. 

“It’s not your fault,” she replied with a huff. “Anyway, looks like practice is off tonight. Make sure you’re on time Sunday, okay? Ron, any clue where Ginny would be?”

Ron shook his head sadly. “No, mate. sorry.”

It was quick work to deduce that Ginny wasn’t in the common room. Ron quickly got sucked into a game of exploding snap, although Harriet declined the invitation to play, intent on finding the youngest Weasley. She mounted the stairs to the girls dormitories with some trepidations: she hadn’t actually been up here since the beginning of the school year. 

The sixth-year room was at the very top of the tower. She hurried past the seventh year door, looking the other way, and rapped sharply on the ajar door to Ginny’s room. 

“Hi Annie, Patricia, have you seen Ginny?” she asked the two girls who seemed to be in the midst of painting their toenails. Both shook their heads, looking mildly terrified to see her in their room, and Harriet left, feeling a bit put out. 

Ginny was finally tracked down in a far corner of the library, encased in a silencing sphere as she flirted with Michael Corner. Harriet pushed through the thickened air of the sphere “Ginny, a word, please?” she requested. 

Ginny stared at her. “Yeah?” she asked flippantly. 

“Somewhere private?” Harriet suggested with a raised eyebrow. 

Ginny looked her up and down. “Who says she wants to be anywhere alone with you?” Michael Corner asked.

Harriet let out a slow breath. “This doesn’t concern you, Corner,” she said levelly. “Ginny, if you have any desire to carry on playing Quidditch, you will come and talk to me right now.”

“That’s blackmail,” Ginny grumbled, but stood anyway. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

Harriet had wondered on occasion why Hogwarts had such a plethora of unused classrooms. She led Ginny into one down the corridor from the library, which sported the same high stained glass windows along with the requisite dusty tables and lectern. She shut the door after Ginny and stood before the younger girl, who’d perched herself on the corner of a table. 

“What is your problem with me, Ginny?” she asked.

Ginny snorted. “You want to talk about  _ this _ ? Now?”

“I want to talk about why you decided to cancel quidditch practice for me this evening.”

Ginny shrugged, having the good grace to look a little abashed. She didn’t meet Harriet’s eyes. “If I don’t get to play, I don’t see why anyone else should.”

“I never said you didn’t get to play, Ginny,” Harriet replied. “I sent you away from one practice because you were mucking about.”

Ginny mumbled something, and Harriet had to ask her to repeat herself. “I  _ said, _ you’ll never pick me to be captain next year, so it doesn’t matter if I play” Ginny finally said clear enough to be heard. She plucked fretfully at the hem of her jumper, then leapt from the desk and made a dash for the door. 

Harriet was faster. Though she was a little slighter than Ginny, she still blocked the way quite effectively. “Right now, Ginny, you’re making it really hard to think you’re ready for the responsibility. But you’re the best player on the team. If you would stop pulling this stupid shit, it would be an easier choice than picking between pumpkin juice and apple juice at breakfast.”

Ginny’s face was red with emotion; whether anger or frustration or embarrassment, Harriet couldn’t tell. “You always have to be the best at everything, Potter!” she snapped. “You don’t leave anything for the rest of us. It’s always you. And you know what? Being with you, being yours- it would have been my ticket out of being just another Weasley, and a girl to boot. There aren’t that many decent men out there, wizards who’ll let me be myself, and then it turns out you were just a faggot, and you made a mockery of me, of all the hours I spent wanting you! When I was Harry Potter’s girlfriend, I was something. Now I’m just the littlest Weasley- no money, no power, and no hope of a good marriage!”

“Ginny, listen,” Harriet said, trying for a placating tone.

“No, you listen!” Ginny screeched, banshee-like. “I spent so many years making sure that I’d have a good marriage, a good life with someone I liked, then you turn around and wreck it all! And I’m left trying to find the best of a bad bunch to have some hope of a decent life, left with frigging Michael Corner, who can’t keep his bloody hands to himself for two minutes and seems to think that I should just exist to please him. You ruined everything!” She shoved past Harriet, slamming the door after her. 

Harriet slumped against the wall. Had it been her fault? Had she ruined Ginny’s life by leading her on? But surely it wasn’t like that- Ginny would find someone, someone better than her. It wasn’t like everyone was paired up now, after all- was it?

She sank slowly down the wall. She had Robin. Ron had Imogen. Faye was with a Hufflepuff boy she couldn’t remember the name of, and in a very unusual turn of affairs, Lavender had been found in an alcove with Blaise Zabini. Perhaps their attraction was driven by a mutual hatred of Harriet. It wasn’t just the seventh years either: Neville and Luna weren’t officially engaged, but it was taken as fact that they’d marry. She’d never really appreciated just how paired up the top years were until news of engagements started appearing amongst the seventh years after the return from Christmas holidays. A pair of Hufflepuffs were planning their wedding for July. Maybe Ginny really was too late. There was only on British magical school- it was a small community, so everyone of a close age met at school. 

But Ginny was going to be successful in her own right, wasn’t she? Harriet tucked her knees under her chin as she considered this. Ginny could play quidditch professionally- she wanted to, and she was good enough. She didn’t need a husband for that. Had she just been convenient for Ginny- had she really just wanted an easygoing husband? Maybe she’d just wanted the ‘boy-who-lived’.

Harriet huffed. Why did having different bits between her legs have to change everything?

  
  



	50. An unexpected journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... fifty!!! I'm excited to post this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it. I had lots of lovely reviews on the last chapter, including some from readers I thought had stopped following this story, so I was very happy to see them!

Ginny moved away if Harriet sat within three places of her at meals. She turned her back if Harriet tried to speak to her, and she didn’t turn up to the next Quidditch practice either. Not knowing what else to do, Harriet went to Professor Lupin.

“No, Harriet, you may not skip the class next week,” Lupin said with a sigh.

“Erm, what?” Harriet asked, confused. 

“The class on Wednesday. The sex education one.”

“The what?”

Lupin let his head fall into his hands with a groan. “Pay attention, Harriet,” he said. “Wednesday, seven o’clock in the common room. Madam Pomfrey’s doing a session on sex and relationships for the fifth, sixth and seventh years.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Harriet said. She thought she remembered hearing about that. “No, that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

“Thank goodness,” Lupin replied. “So far, almost every single person who should be there has argued about why they should be excused. What did you want?”

Harriet threw herself into the chair at the side of Lupin's desk. “It’s Ginny,” she said. “She’s stopped coming to quidditch, and she won’t talk to me. If she carries on, I’ll have to replace her, and I don’t really want to. She’s a really good player.”

“You were in a relationship with Ginny until last year, correct?” Lupin asked, stroking his quill idly. Harriet nodded. “I’ll have a word with her about returning to practices,” Lupin offered. “Other than that… I am sorry, but I don’t imagine you will ever be friends. Best to leave her to her own devices,” he suggested.

“Thanks, Professor,” Harriet said. “I mostly just want her to come back to quidditch. I don’t want to replace her, and it’ll be hard for her to go professional if she hasn’t played here. I was planning on suggesting her for captain for next year.”

Lupin smiled encouragingly. “You’re doing very well, Harriet- both matches won so far! I’ll see what can be done about Ginny, and you, show up on Wednesday, please!”

“Yes, Professor,” Harriet said with a smile. She knew she had to- she had said that it was a good idea, after all, although she was now a little bit nervous about sitting in the common room discussing such intimate things with thirty others. Oh well. It was a few hours. She was more upset about missing defence club. 

At breakfast the next day, Hermione slipped into the seat next to Harriet. “Will you speak to Ginny?” she asked quietly. “She’s really upset.”

“I’ve been trying,” Harriet snapped, mopping up egg yolk with her toast. “She won’t talk to me, not the other way around.”

“What if I found a way that she had to talk to you? Would you? Please, Harriet, her roommates say she just won’t stop crying, and it’s something to do with you.”

“Good luck,” Harriet muttered darkly. For all Lupin had told her to leave well enough alone, she did feel guilty. Now she had some idea of how Ginny felt, it did seem a little her fault, though she’d had no choice in her biological sex.

Hermione nodded briskly, apparently quite her own self when away from Severus. “I’ll let you know,” she promised. 

Quite how Hermione managed to talk to Ginny before lunch, Harriet wasn’t sure, but Hermione was smiling when she sat down in Transfigurations. “Ginny’s got a free lesson last thing too,” she said. “I’ve persuaded her to go for a walk with me. I’ll see what I can get out of her, then we’ll meet up with you, say about four? At the edge of the forest, so she doesn’t know you’re there until we get there. That way, you can shout at each other all you want and get it out of your systems, and no one will hear.”

“I’d rather not get shouted at,” Harriet groused. 

“You haven’t had a chance to clear the air,” Hermione informed her. “If you can get it all out and go back to being civil, it’ll be worth any shouting. Ginny can’t go on like this: her marks are suffering, and she keeps crying.”

“I didn’t ask her to cry,” Harriet muttered as Professor McGonagall rapped on the desk for attention, a large bundle of branches in her hands. Hermione attentively sat up straight, ready to learn, whilst on Harriet’s other side, Ron opened one eye. 

Harriet took her invisibility cloak and her Potions textbook down the edge of the forest at half past three. She settled with her back against a mossy tree trunk and tented the cloak over her, propping her book in her knees. It was pleasant, actually, an unusually warm day for late January. There was no snow here, beneath the heavy canopy of the forest, and even in the open, it was melting away, only remaining in shady places. A few snowdrops were out, and the sun was giving a last burst of brightness before wintery darkness began to fall, giving the light a happy, bright quality. There wasn’t any wind to ruffle the branches, and wrapped in her Hogwarts cloak and covered by the invisibility cloak, she was comfortable.

Blaise wandered past her hiding place. She wondered if he was off to an assignation with Lavender. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Lavender wanting to do anything outdoors at all, so perhaps not. Maybe he was trying to get away from her. Harriet couldn’t blame him for that. The Ravenclaw beaters wandered down to the quidditch pitch, lugging a box of balls between them. They had been decidedly sub-par in their last match, so she supposed they were trying to get extra practice in. They’d have been better off practicing with charmed basketballs, she thought. Less bruises that way. They’d learn.

She glanced up from trying to memorise the ingredients in a shrinking solution- it was a long list, and notoriously difficult to remember- and spotted Hermione and Ginny meandering along the lakeside towards her. Ginny stooped to pick up pebbles as they went, hurling them into the water with some force, apparently trying to get the biggest splash she could.

Harriet waited until they were close enough to hear. “What do you want from her, though?” Hermione asked. 

Ginny shrugged. “I dunno. To go back in time and not mess me about.”

“She didn’t know, Gin,” Hermione protested. “She had no idea.”

“Shoulda told me that she was into boys, then,” Ginny said. “But it’s not like I can just walk up to her now and say ‘I’m a berk, please ignore the last six months,’ now, is it?”

“I don’t see why not,” Hermione said, glancing towards the forest. Where was Harriet? she wondered. Had she come, or decided not to bother? Harriet realised what Hermione was after, and scrambled from beneath her cloak. Ginny turned at the rustle. “Oh, look,” Hermione cried delightedly. “No time like the present!”

Hogwarts should offer acting classes. Hermione definitely needed them.

“Ginny, I just want to go back to being friendly,” Harriet explained. 

The colour rose in Ginny’s face, starting at her neck and flushing right up to her forehead. “You set me up!” she raged. “You want to make me look like a fool!”

“No, Ginny!” Hermione cried out, just as Ginny whipped her wand from her robe pocket. Harriet pulled her own out, but Hermione was faster. “ _ Expelliarmus _ !”

Ginny’s wand soared into Hermione’s outstretched hand, and the younger girl shrieked in frustration. Hermione cast a silencing spell, enclosing them in a sphere to block out noise. The only sound now was a slight rustle of branches above them, then silence. “Harriet, give me your wand,” Hermione demanded, holding out her palm. “You two are going to work this out, here, now, and by talking, not magic.”

With a huff, Harriet handed over her wand. It wasn’t that she wanted to hex Ginny, she just had the perfectly natural hatred of being separated from the wand. Hermione bundled all three together and shoved them in her pocket, the ends sticking out. She leaned back against a tree. “Okay. Now. Ginny, why aren’t you going to quidditch practice?”

“Because I’m never going to get captain next year anyway,” Ginny grumbled. 

“Ginny, come back to practice, act like you want to be there, and carry on being the good player you are, and you’re guaranteed captaincy next year!” Harriet interjected. 

Ginny’s mouth twisted in a scowl. “That’s not what you’ve said to other people,” she complained. 

“I’ve never said that I’d pick anyone else!” Harriet countered.

There was a murmur from above them, and three wands soared from Hermione’s pocket into the trees. All three girls leapt in a movement that would have been comical if it hadn’t been such a tense situation, Harriet grabbing for the wands as they shot past. A laugh sounded above them, and a dark figure dropped from the tree. 

Blaise shot off a wide-range  _ petrificus _ before any of them could move a step. Three bodies crashed into the undergrowth. A crack sounded in Harriet’s ear, and pain bloomed in her shoulder: it wasn’t a branch she’d broken. 

“Sorry to break up the fascinating discussion, girls, but I thought perhaps we could take it elsewhere,” Blaise drawled. “I only wanted Potter, really, but hey, three for the price of one and all…”

Harriet was throwing everything she had against the deadening weight of the  _ petrificus _ . She was convinced that he could almost feel her magic buffeting against the spell even as her eyes stung from the inability to blink. The weight of the spell listed slightly, and Harriet surged up with all her strength, pulling herself to her knees as if she was swimming through treacle. Her hand reached out for the wands, clutched in Blaise’s hand, her shoulder screaming in pain. He laughed, and pulled them out of her reach, before aiming his own at her, applying a more effective paralysing spell. She thumped back to the ground with another spike of agony. 

He reapplied the spell to both Ginny and Hermione, then set about dragging them closer together, so each was touching hands. The odd thing about being under a full body bind was that you could still feel everything, even if you couldn’t move. Ginny’s fingers were cold. Blaise pulled a long chain over his head, winding it around their hands so each girl was in contact. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. 

“ _ Portus activus,”  _ muttered Blaise, and the familiar, sickening sensation of a portkey tugged at Harriet’s navel. Travelling whilst paralysed was even more uncomfortable and disorienting than usual, but apparently  _ petrificus _ affected the muscles of the stomach as well; Harriet only felt like she was going to be sick. All four students landed, the three girls with an undignified and rather painful thump on the dusty floor of a ramshackle house. They must have been some distance away from Hogwarts, because twilight was beginning to fall here. 

Wasting no time, Blaise pulled another chain from his neck and repeated the motions of a minute before, twining it between their fingers to ensure they were all in contact with it. He activated it, launching them back into the swirling nothingness.

Their destination was dark, cold, hard. “ _ Lumos,”  _ said Blaise, and his wand tip lent an eerie glow to stone walls. He swept the light around, only increasing Harriet’s dizziness, then located the lamps set high into the walls. With a word, he lit them, throwing shadows across the ceiling. 

“You really should have given a thought to your safety,” he said idly, to none of them in particular. “That was far too easy. Discussing your plans for secret meetings out of the way whilst in a lesson, at the desk in front of me… foolish, truly. I was annoyed when I couldn’t see Potter at first- who knows where you were hiding- but three little birdies is better than one.” He grinned, his teeth white in his dark face as he leaned over them. He was upside-down to Harriet: it was most disorientating. 

Blaise pushed out of the heavy wooden door, leaving the three girls unattended and spell-forced to stillness. How long would he leave then, Harriet wondered? A  _ petrificus _ would wear off of it’s own accord within about an hour, or it could be removed by the caster… would he be back in an hour? Where were they, anyway? She hated not being able to move even her eyes to look around, and her vision occasionally blurred as tears forced their way across her eyes to keep them from getting too dry. Her hand was still tangled in the cold chains, pressed tight to Ginny and Hermione’s hands. 

The passage of time is difficult, if not impossible to gauge when you are immobile, unable to communicate, in an unchanging room. It must have been less than an hour before Blaise returned, because she was still completely unable to move. She’d given up trying. 

She heard the heavy door snick open, but her view was still firmly of the ceiling. She could see just the top of the door as it swung into the room, and strained her ears, waiting for something; some speech, some clue. 

If she could have jumped in shock, she would have when Lucius Malfoy spoke. His plummy, overly-cultured tone was instantly recognisable. “Well, well, Zabini, you speak true. You have succeeded where my pitiful excuse for a son has failed time and time again. You really have brought the Potter brat.” Lucius Malfoy’s face peered into Harriet’s field of view as he leaned over her. His cane rapped sharply against her side as if checking she was real. Harriet would have gasped in indignation, but she was prevented from doing anything but taking the shallow, measured breaths allowed by the spell. “You used the double portkeys so the Hogwarts wards can’t be used to track you?” he asked Blaise, who nodded. Lucius gave a hum of though. “I admit, I didn’t think you could do it. A few hours will make sure there’s no polyjuice at work, and then I shall summon his Lordship. I have no doubt you will be handsomely rewarded.” His face vanished. “Crabbe!” he called. “Get in here. Help Zabini tie these three sacks of potatoes up so he can release them from their paralysis.”

She presumed it was Blaise who untangled the delicate portkey chains from around their hands. Hands hooked under Harriet’s armpits and yanked her into a sitting position, propping her sloppily against a wall. She had thought she would welcome a change from the view of the stone ceiling, but the view of the stone wall wasn’t much more inspiring.

Vincent Crabbe had apparently moved on from his career as a school-age lackey to Draco into the employ of Lucius Malfoy. He was pulling Ginny into a semi-sitting position. Hermione was still sprawled across the floor, and Malfoy was leaning on his silver and black cane in the corner, so it must be Blaise who was currently wrapping something cold and metallic around her wrists.

He moved into her view as he came to her front, a set of silver manacles resting in his hands. He gave her a toothy grin and set to attaching them to her ankles, fastening them with a small silver key that glowed blue when he locked them. There was magic at work, but she didn’t know what. The chain between them clanked to the stones as he stepped away, locking Hermione’s ankles up as Crabbe made some use of his brute strength to hoist her up and manacle her wrists.  They stepped back to join Malfoy, admiring their handiwork. 

“Their wands?” Malfoy asked languorously.

Zabini pulled them out of his robes and handed them to the aristocratic blond. “They were pathetically easy to disarm. Granger did the hard part for me- she took Weasley and Potter’s wands so they didn’t hex each other.”

“Stupid children indeed. Dispel them.”

With a  _ finite incantatem _ , power over her body returned to Harriet in a wave. She gasped in a lungful of air, almost toppling from her precarious positions against the wall. She quickly discovered that the chain on the manacles was long enough to allow her to brace her hands on the floor. 

“Where the fuck have you taken us?” was her first, yelled, question.

Lucius Malfoy didn’t even need to wave his wand to cast spells, apparently; contact with his cane was enough. “ _ Silencio _ ,” he drawled, deadening the sound from his captives. Harriet tried to scream, but the sound never emerged, leaving her instead with nothing but a raw throat from the effort. She yanked on her chains, noticing Ginny and Hermione doing the same. Hermione looked like she was yelling too. Harriet tried to struggle to her bound feet. An unknown incantation from Lucius snapped the manacles together, almost toppling her over, and preventing her from using her hands to steady herself. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream as her shoulder jostled: she was reasonably sure by now that she’d broken her collarbone.

Malfoy dropped into a crouch in front of them, a hand still resting on his cane. “You are my guests at Malfoy Manor,” he informed them. “I will have no behaviour as uncouth as shouting and swearing from you; you are supposed to be young ladies, and so above such hooligan-like behaviour. You will remain here awaiting the Dark Lord’s pleasure. Your chains are unbreakable, and charmed with magic dampeners, so you will not be needing these.” He held out their wands, then, one by one, beginning with Ginny’s, he snapped them in half, then again, the now-useless wood clattering to the floor. “ _ Incendio, _ ” he murmured, and the little pile of wand pieces went up in flames like so much kindling, leaving nothing but ash behind. “Crabbe, fetch some comforts for our guests, please,” he said, not taking his eyes from Harriet’s scowling face. “The Dark Lord will be very interested to have you, I am sure, Miss Potter. He has been quite… intrigued by your change in sex. Your companions… well, thank you, Zabini, for bringing us some playthings.” He straightened, and took from Crabbe a stack of fabric. He dropped it in the middle of the floor, then directed the mountainous hulk of a boy to place the twin tin buckets he carried in a corner.

“We will leave you now, so that you may become acquainted with your quarters.” He tapped his cane against the floor in impatience, gesturing for Blaise and Crabbe to leave. 

“I wish to spend longer with the prisoners,” Blaise replied stubbornly.

“In good time, Zabini,” Lucius said with a sly smile. “You will have your reward, but it is better to receive it from the hand of the Lord. You would not wish to be punished when you should be esteemed, I am sure.”

Blaise gave one last, hungry look in Harriet’s direction, a look that made her heart freeze in her chest. Then he was gone, and Malfoy was shutting the door softly, with a firm click of a lock and the rasp of a bolt. His spells broke as he left, the audible pop of the silencing spell dissipating, and the chains of the manacles vanishing, though the heavy bracelets and anklets remained. 


	51. The snake's lair

Ginny was crying; fat, glistening tears slipping down her cheeks as she tried to suck in breath. Harriet bit her lip against the pain of her collarbone and the tingling of her newly released limbs,  and looked over to Hermione, hoping she’d try to comfort Ginny, but she was curled into a foetal position, her hands over her ears and her eyes screwed tight shut, as if trying to block everything out.

Harriet winced and trembled as she stumbled to her feet, crossing the few steps to the other side of the room where Ginny sobbed. Carefully keeping her weight on her good side, she lowered herself to the ground again next to her and wrapped an arm around her heaving shoulders. “We’ll figure something out, Ginny,” she soothed, but, in truth, Harriet had no idea what. 

She took stock of the situation, and it did seem wholly hopeless. They were in Malfoy Manor, if Lucius was to be believed, and she had no reason to mistrust that nugget of information. For a start, he was under house arrest, and presumably subject to Ministry tracking charms, so his very presence should have told her that. 

They had no wands, theirs burnt to ash. She swallowed a lump in her throat to know that her wand, her constant companion since she was eleven, was gone. It was surprising how much she felt its loss, really.

She supposed they could make an effort at wandless magic, but the results would be, at best, unpredictable. At worst, it wouldn’t work, and they’d just exhaust themselves trying, particularly if Malfoy had also spoken the truth about magic dampeners in their manacles. She’d heard of jewelry that suppressed accidental magic used in particularly strong wizarding children: after all, it would be truly inconvenient having a child who kept setting fire to everything. They could try to take a wand from whoever came in next; but if they really were cuffed with metal that contained magic, they may as well have a stick.

And then, there was the thing she was trying to avoid; the unspeakable reality that she was here, helpless, waiting for the certain arrival of Voldemort. She was probably facing the last hours of her life. She was a sitting duck, completely defenceless. She should be setting her thoughts to trying to save Ginny and Hermione, she supposed. But she couldn’t even think of anything. She tipped her head back against the wall, ignoring a twinge of pain. She’d failed. She couldn’t defeat Voldemort, not like this, here, with nothing. 

Logically, she’d known for years that she might not survive this war. But knowing it and accepting it were two very different things. Over the last few months, she’d really seen some kind of future; a life. A home, with Robin, maybe even a child or two, one day. She’d seen herself as more than the ‘chosen one’. 

Robin! She bolted upright. “Hermione,” she hissed. No response. “Hermione!” She disentangled herself from Ginny and reached over to shove Hermione. She finally raised her bushy head from the nest of her arms. She was dead white with fear. “If Voldemort looks into our minds…” Harriet began.

“Shhh!” Hermione hissed harshly. “You think they won’t be listening?”

Harriet realised that she may well be right. She shuffled over to Hermione, placing her lips against her friend’s ear. “Robin,” she whispered. 

Hermione nodded. “I know,” she said quietly. “Not just him, either.”

She looked sad. She was thinking of Severus, Harriet correctly guessed. If he was revealed as a spy, he’d be killed within an instant of being summoned, and he wouldn’t even be expecting it. He’d come like a good little spy, to be met with  _ avada  _ and a high-pitched laugh. Hermione tugged Harriet’s head close to hers again. “Can you hide your mind?” she hissed. Harriet nodded. “Good. I think...that is, I’m pretty sure I can. I’ve been practicing occlumency on my own since fifth year. I hope I’m good enough. Ginny doesn’t know much, so they can’t see it in her mind.”

Harriet nodded again. At least the wouldn’t have to worry about Ginny- she didn’t know about Robin, and was only vaguely aware that Severus was a member of the order. But Voldemort knew that too… he thought Severus was spying on Dumbledore and the side of the light for him. Ginny’s sobs had finally subsided, leaving occasional tears and an empty look in her eyes. She watched the other two girls impassively, apparently without any curiosity about their discussions.

“What do you think they’ll do to us?” Hermione asked fearfully. 

“I think you probably know the answer to that,” Harriet said shortly, getting to her feet, her muscles finally beginning to lose the ache of the body bind. She picked through the fabric in the centre of the room, revealing three blankets. One of the buckets in the corner was filled to the brim with water, with a cup hung from the side; the other was empty. She prowled around the walls, running her hands along them, but they were close fitted stone, and she felt nothing beneath her fingers. The lamps were set higher into the walls than she could reach, but there seemed nothing spectacular or unusual about them. There was no window, so that left only the door as a weak point. She ran her hands all around the jamb, but it was solid stone. A hefty kick to the door left her with nothing more than a stinging foot and a knowledge that it was thick, solid wood.

“What are you doing?” Ginny’s voice was small, hoarse.

“Looking for a way out,” Harriet said grimly. Yes, she might be dead to a flash of green light in a few hours, but she owed it to Robin to try.

“They’ll know we’re gone soon,” Ginny pointed out. “They’ll fetch us back.”

Harriet rounded on Ginny with a snarl. “Who will, Ginny? Who will rescue us? We’re in Malfoy Manor, an unplottable, heavily warded fortress, probably crawling with death eaters. Dumbledore can’t just waltz in and ask Lucius Malfoy if we’re visiting, because he seems to have misplaced us! Besides, they don’t even know where we are; Zabini used a double portkey, which means a destination is almost impossible to track, even with the Hogwarts wards!”

“Well, maybe you don’t have anyone who cares enough about you to come looking, but someone will come for me!” Ginny snapped. “I have a family who cares about me!”

“Girls!” Hermione cried before Harriet could even pick her jaw up off the floor. “This isn’t helping anyone. The least you two could do is try to make amends.”

“Hermione’s right,” Harriet said dejectedly. She couldn’t find any weak spots in the fabric of the room. “There’s no point arguing. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” She picked up the blankets, tossing one each to Ginny and Hermione before making a cushion with hers and flopping down with it against a wall. She winced as she jostled her shoulder.

“What’s up with your arm?” Ginny asked sulkily.

“I think I’ve broken my collarbone,” Harriet replied, her tone flat. She leaned her head back against the wall. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be feeling any pain soon enough.”

“Don’t talk like that, Harriet,” Hermione pleaded softly. “There has to be some way. There’s always a way.”

“Let me know if you think of one,” Harriet said. She closed her eyes, trying to forget that she was in some dank cell beneath Malfoy Manor. She should be at dinner now, or doing homework. She’d have seen Robin again tomorrow, he’d have held her whilst she fell asleep. He’d have kissed her, they’d have made love. She tried to imagine his hand on the back of her neck as he held her close for a kiss, but the feeling kept slipping before she could grasp it. Robin didn’t belong in this place. 

Ginny still sniffled occasionally. She’d curled up in a little ball under her cloak, resting her head on her scrunched up blanket. Harriet could almost sense the cogs turning in Hermione’s head as she searched for something, anything, some hint of a plan. The best Harriet could currently think of was attempting to rush the door next time someone came in, hope it was Crabbe, and make a run for it. That, or suicide, but in a bare room, she couldn’t think of many ways to kill herself. Had they still had chains connecting their manacles, they perhaps could have garrotted each other. That, though, was unpleasant thought, and would leave one of them alive. On reflection, death by  _ avada _ seemed far preferable. At least it was quick. She just hoped that Voldemort didn’t use the cruciatus curse too liberally beforehand. It would just have to fall to Neville to be the defeater of Voldemort, it seemed. She felt sorry for Neville now.

Time passed. How much was difficult to tell in the windowless room where the lamps burnt magically. The light never changed, but Harriet was hungry and dreaming of Hogwarts breakfast, and Ginny long had fallen asleep when Harriet lifted her head, hearing something beyond the regular breathing of her companions. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the heavy rasp of the bolt had Hermione looking up. She shared a look of apprehension with Harriet as the lock clicked. Harriet steeled herself for red eyes and a flash of green light.

The quiet tap of a cane on the floor heralded Malfoy. Even Ginny had opened her eyes, though she hadn’t moved. As Malfoy crossed the threshold, the cuffs around wrists and ankles sprouted chains, long enough to allow them to keep their current positions. Crabbe held the door for the older man, shutting it swiftly behind them and standing against it. Harriet looked up warily, unsure. “Potter. Come,” Malfoy snapped. 

Harriet didn’t move. She didn’t exactly want to make anything easy for Malfoy. She didn’t think it would make any difference to the length of her life, after all. Malfoy didn’t seem to care: he’d probably expected defiance. He nodded towards her, and Crabbe surged forward, his hand grabbing for the chain between her wrists. She struck out, but failed to connect with anything as the manacles snapped together like strong magnets, keeping her arms bound before her. “Don’t try that again, Potter,” Lucius drawled. “I’ll bind your feet too if I have need, and have you carried.”

“What’s to say I’ll go anyway?” Harriet snapped, glaring up at him.

He lifted a shoulder in a smooth, languorous motion. “You’ve made your choice,” he said, and her ankles snapped together with some force. She cried out in pain as Crabbe yanked against the link of chain at her wrists to bundle her into his arms like an unwilling animal.

“You’re hurting her, you brute!” Hermione shouted, but neither man gave any indication they’d even heard. 

Crabbe carried her out into a stone corridor as Malfoy locked the door again. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, trying to sound courageous, defiant, even, but she just felt frightened. 

“To see the Dark Lord,” Malfoy supplied. “So you should be on your best behaviour should you desire mercy.”

Harriet snorted. Mercy? “I didn’t think your master believed in mercy,” she commented. Malfoy stayed quiet. Crabbe carried her up a set of stairs and through another door, which Malfoy unlocked by tapping at it with his cane. A magical lock then, quite possibly tied either to Malfoy or to his wand, which Harriet presumed to be inside the cane. How on earth had she even gotten herself into this situation? She’d never thought that Zabini would go this far, and she avoided being with him anyway. This was well planned, though… either Malfoy kept well-protected gaols as a matter of course, or it had been prepared for her. Blaise had carried portkeys to Malfoy Manor with him… and it sounded like Draco had as well. She wondered if Blaise had actually intended to kidnap her, all those months ago in the empty classroom. Draco had surely had opportunity too- like the late night in the library. Why hadn’t he? If he had taken her then, at least Ginny and Hermione would have been safe, back at Hogwarts and not here, paying the price for her life. 

On the other side of the magically-locked door, the surroundings became rather more sumptuous. The stone floor was replaced by thick cream carpets, the walls wainscoted in dark wood and covered in heavy green damask above. Harriet was surprised to see light slanting in the windows they passed- it was morning. No wonder she was hungry, she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

They traversed a large marble hall with sweeping stairs, a formal drawing room of some kind, another corridor, then, finally, a study. Lucius tapped on the polished wooden door before pushing it open, Crabbe hanging back, having walked a step behind the Malfoy patriarch all the way. Malfoy dipped into a low bow. “My Lord, I have brought the Potter child.”

“Bring her in, Lucius,” Voldemort insisted, his voice low, sibilant. Harriet wanted nothing so much as to shut her eyes as Crabbe carried her in, then dropped her, none too gently, on the floor. The burgandy carpet was luxuriously thick, but she couldn’t quite avoid a grunt of pain as she landed on her knees.

She looked resolutely at the ground, knowing that eye contact made legilimency much easier, and checked her shields. She needed to keep her thoughts realistice... Hogwarts. Yes. She should be at Hogwarts. She didn’t understand why she was here. Lessons. Lessons were boring, she was too good for lessons. Someone like her didn’t need lessons. She’d rather be playing quidditch, she was the best at that, and it was more fun. Her mind jumped erratically from the last practice, where one of her beaters had hit a bludger the full length of the pitch, to the match before, to a slightly drunken revel in the tower, and then to her empty stomach. She wanted food… roast chicken, maybe, or shepherd's pie. She liked the way the pie at Hogwarts always had lots of cheese…

Cold fingers slipped under her chin and yanked up, forcing her to meet blood-red eyes. Yes, cheese, Harriet thought, feeling the subtle stroke of a questing mind on hers. The white cheese was nicer than the red cheese, less oily. She didn’t like red, not like those red eyes. She had to try not to be scared… only cowards were scared. Like Neville. Neville was a coward. She had to be brave… brave like her parents were. 

Voldemort smiled. He actually smiled, showing odd, slightly pointed teeth and blood-red gums. The odd pressure of legilimency against Harriet’s mind was gone, but still she kept her shields, thinking about how scared she was, but how she couldn’t show it. “Changing your sex has not improved your intelligence,” Voldemort murmured softly. He released her chin. “You have done well, Blaise. I am pleased with you.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Blaise said. Harriet peered around, seeing him to her left and slightly back, his hands clasped before him. “I hope to serve you always.”

“In good time, my boy,” Voldemort told him. “You have a few months of schooling left yet. Have patience.”

Blaise sank to his knees. “I do not see what more I can learn from Hogwarts. Please, Lord, I wish to follow you.”

“I do not mark schoolchildren,” Voldemort replied with a cold laugh. “Lucius knows this: he’s begged me on bended knee to give his son the mark enough times. No; you are too vulnerable there, amongst your peers, under the watchful eye of Dumbledore, old fool that he is. If you were found to bear the mark, you would be a risk to me. Fear not, Blaise, you will be permitted to take the sign of my approval in the summer, at the same time of Draco. I reward those who are loyal to me, and those who bring me treasures.”

A pale hand tangled in Harriet’s dark hair, sending an involuntary shudder of revulsion down her spine. He tugged upwards. “Stand, girl,” he hissed. She tried to obey, if just to relieve the horrid pulling on her scalp. Her bound hands and feet couldn’t quite get into the right position, though, and Voldemort laughed, chortled at her misfortune. Even Malfoy chuckled, though a tilt of his cane towards her lengthened the chain, letting her stumble up.; Voldemort stepped back, looking her up and down. “Look at me,” he instructed, then, as she didn’t comply, slapped her across the face.

Harriet gasped, and, hoping that this was nearly over, that he would be quick, looked up into his unearthly-pale face, the blood red eyes standing out. He still had no nose, though he had grown hair since Harriet last saw him, even whiter than his skin, and wavy. He smiled, showing teeth again “Pretty little creature, aren’t you?” he asked rhetorically; at least, Harriet hoped it was rhetorical. His intonation was strange, halting, like he was speaking in a foreign language. She didn’t answer, and he didn’t press. She kept her gaze on his forehead to avoid his deepset crimson eyes, still keeping her thoughts guarded and skittering, trying to emulate a frightened mind. It wasn’t difficult; she was frightened, very frightened. She didn’t feel any incursions into her mind, but everyone said Voldemort was one of the best legilimens. She might not know if he was trying to gain access to her mind. She wondered what was happening to Hermione and Ginny at this moment. Were they alone in the cell, or subjected to torture, or dead? She didn’t bother hiding that thought. 

Voldemort circled around her. She curled her hands into fists, wishing so very hard that she had her wand. She wanted to cry, remembering Malfoy burning it in front of her, but she couldn’t show weakness like that, not now, not here. His freezing fingers trailed over her cheek, making her flinch, and he ghosted his hand over her hair. He caught her fringe in his hand, then pressed one long digit to her forehead, hard, right over her scar. Harriet gasped in pain, the dull headache that she’d had for hours blazing into icy agony. She tried to flinch back, break the connection, but to no avail. After a few seconds, Voldemort dropped his hand, leaving her with flashes in her vision and a pounding in her head.

Voldemort’s next words made her gasp, and her blood run cold. “Strip her,” he ordered. Immediately, Crabbe’s meaty hands were grasping at the collar of her robe, tugging. She struck out at him, prompting another laugh from Voldemort. He grasped her wrists easily in an iron grip, his skin as cold as the metal of the cuffs. She’d have kicked, but her feet were still bound tightly enough that it was all she could do to keep her balance. Zabini stepped forward, a swish of his wand slicing through fabric and pulling it off her without needing to unfasten her chains. She closed her eyes in mortification as he pulled her robes away, then her blouse, leaving her standing in her skirt and bra. The undergarment fell away, and she let out a cry of mortification, straining her wrists against Voldemort’s icy grip. Her skirt fell around her ankles, and Crabbe’s fingers tucked beneath the waistband of her tights. 

“Why can’t you just kill me already?” Harriet ground out. “Leave me some fucking dignity.”

“Oh, I have better plans than a quick death for you, girl,” Voldemort hissed delightedly.


	52. Plans and Plots

The door to the head’s office slammed open to reveal a furious Severus. “Harriet Potter, Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley are missing,” he snapped to the three people gathered around the desk, not waiting for a greeting. “They met by the forbidden forest and did not return for dinner, and cannot be found. We must organise a search.”

Albus looked over his half moon glasses, and Minerva tucked his blanket around his shoulder again. “We were about to send for you, Severus,” he intoned.

“You were aware?” Severus said with a frown. “You knew, and still you sit here? I suppose you would prefer that I searched the forest. I will need help from Hagrid; I cannot cover that much ground alone.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lupin informed him. “They’re not in the forest.”

“I beg your pardon?” Severus glowered. “If they are not in the forest, where are they?”

“That was why we were about to summon you, Severus,” Minerva said sharply, her lips pursed in disapproval. “The school wards record their departure by portkey at a quarter past four this afternoon, in the company of Blaise Zabini.”

Severus clenched his hands, the action hidden by the folds of his robes. “Do you suggest that Harriet simply walked away with Mr. Zabini?” he queried harshly. “I find that unlikely, given their interactions over the last months.”

“No one is suggesting that, Severus,” Lupin said with a weary sigh, resting his elbows on the desk. Severus finally recognised what it was that all three were looking at: it was the school map, an artifact made by the founders and capable of showing the location of every inhabitant of the castle if they were within its bounds. Searching it was a laborious, intensive procedure. They really were worried, or desperate to be ploughing the time of three people into searching it, including pulling Albus from his chambers. Severus spared a healer’s glance for the old man. He did not look well. The potions and healing magic were prolonging his life, but for how long, even Severus could not tell.

“Have the rest of the Order been informed?” he asked tersely. 

“Now, now, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here,” Dumbledore said. “The Zabinis have no known connections to Voldemort, after all, and Mr Zabini does seem to hold something of a grudge against Miss Potter. It is not necessarily an order matter. I think it probable that she will be returned to us, possibly slightly the worse for wear, but intact.”

“Intact?” Severus hissed. “Intact? If she is returned with a hair on her head harmed, Zabini shall be made to pay!”

Minerva and Lupin started at his reaction. Even Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. “Severus… why the new-found protective instincts?” Minerva asked. 

“She is my goddaughter,” Severus replied sharply. “I have the right to be protective. Apparently, though, I am not protection enough. She must be found.”

“Your…  _ goddaughter _ ?” Minerva repeated sharply. “No, Severus… it was Sirius Black who named Potter.”

“It was Sirius Black who named  _ Harry _ Potter,” Dumbledore pointed out. “For the moment, though, we must focus on finding the children. Severus, have you any idea where Blaise may have gone?”

Severus gave a stiff inclination of his head, something like a small bow. “I will contact Madam Zabini,” he suggested. “He may have taken them to their mansion.”

“Perhaps not taken unwillingly, Severus,” Albus said gently. “They may have gone on one of their adventures; if nothing else, I have learnt over my career that teenaged children will never cease to surprise us.” Severus fisted his hands so tightly his nails dug painfully into his palms, but did not show his anger on his face. Dumbledore continued, asking, “How is it that you came to know of their absence?”

“Ronald Weasley was looking for them. I happened to come across his hunt,” Severus said smoothly. “If you will excuse me, I shall contact Madam Zabini.” 

Ron was lingering at the bottom of the staircase. He looked up fearfully at Severus as he approached. “Well?” he asked, more afraid for his friends and sister than he was of Severus.

“They were portkeyed away in the company of Blaise Zabini,” Severus said flatly. “They will be found.”

“Zabini! Professor, please, he tried to kill Harriet…”

Severus held up a hand, deepening his scowl. “I am aware of that, Mr. Weasley. You know that I have my own reasons for wishing their safe and speedy return: I must be about my business. You will be contacted if you can be of assistance, or in the event of their return. You have my word on it.”

Ron nodded dejectedly, and turned to slowly trudge back to Gryffindor tower. “I would think it prudent to keep this news to yourself, Weasley,” Severus called. 

“I know, Professor,” Ron called back morosely. 

Severus had not been entirely forthcoming with Dumbledore. He had not found Ron, rather, Ron had sought him out after his concerns were brushed aside by Minerva. Severus had known that the young man must have been truly worried to seen him out, given how afraid Ron was of him, and the young man was grateful that Severus had listened and taken him seriously. His steps were heavy as he trod his way to his office to floo Madam Zabini. 

As heavy as his heart was in fear for Harriet, Hermione was in danger too. 

 

***

 

Silent tears tracked down Harriet’s face. She had tried to bite Crabbe, received a slap in the face from Zabini for her attempts to hurt him, and now was suffering the indignity of being truly, completely naked in front of Voldemort. Even her shoes and socks were gone: the only adornment aside from the manacle-like cuffs and their come-and-go chains was the charm bracelet Robin had given her, with its little silver broomstick. The point of it dug into her wrist a little under the cuff, but she didn’t really mind. It was a reminder that somebody cared. They’d left her her glasses, too, though she wasn’t sure that was a kindness. It might have been easier if everything faded to a blur.

Voldemort circled around her twice. He grasped her chin again, pulling her face up so he could study it, though she didn’t think he was attempting to access her mind. She didn’t need to imagine a frightened disarray of thoughts to confound his attempts at legilimency: her brain was providing them quite of its own accord. She gulped, and he let her face go. An icy hand weighed one breast with something approaching disinterest, and Harriet shuddered in revulsion, shuffling away. Voldemort dug long, bluish nails into the flesh of her arm and yanked forward. She yelped, shockwaves running through to the broken bone. 

Voldemort tutted. “That bruise is most unsightly,” he commented. and raised his wand. Harriet closed her eyes, waiting for the words. 

Instead of the killing curse, though, Voldemort healed the break. She gasped as the bone sprang back with an audible crunch. It still hurt. “Are you a virgin, girl?” he asked languorously. 

“What?” Harriet spluttered, shocked into speech. 

“A virgin. Have you lain with a man?”

“None of your business!” Harriet snapped before thinking where she was, who she was talking to. She snapped her mouth closed again. She didn’t understand… did Voldemort need some kind of virgin sacrifice? Well, he wasn’t getting it from her.

Blaise spoke up. “I’ve never heard of her having any liaisons,” he volunteered. 

Harriet still said nothing, even when Voldemort tightly twisted his hand in her hair. He grew bored, and she found herself spun and shoved back against the desk with a wave of magic. “If you will not speak, there are other ways of finding out,” Voldemort informed her. When he reached for her legs, she realised what he wanted to do, and began to kick wildly. Malfoy stepped forward, wand outstretched, but Voldemort was quicker. “ _ Petrificus crura, _ ” he snapped, and her legs froze, no longer under her control. A rough, stifled sob escaped her then, and a slow smile spread across Voldemort's milky skin. “One of you, hold her down,” he instructed, and when Zabini had his hands firmly on each of her shoulders, pressing her into the tabletop, Voldemort pushed her now-unresisting legs back and out. They were tucked close to her chest, leaving her completely vulnerable. Harriet screwed her eyes shut, every muscle that she had control over tight as a bowstring as dry, freezing fingers spread her open, then pressed painfully inside her. 

“Alas,” Voldemort sighed, holding the final ‘s’ into something of a hiss, “She is not virginal. No matter.” He let her legs drop. They thumped painfully down onto the hard edge of the desk. “She will do. Lucius, prepare for a celebration, two nights hence. Ensure the girl is suitably prepared for the ritual. I will provide the potions and artifacts necessary.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Malfoy said. “My Lord, what of the other two? The mudblood and the blood traitor?”

Voldemort appeared to consider this for a moment. “The Weasley girl may serve as a suitable handmaiden for this one. She will need help when she grows large. The mudblood will be suitable entertainment for my loyal subjects,” he declared eventually. “Perhaps, Blaise, you would like her to play with?”

Blaise dropped to his knees at Voldemort’s feet. “Please, My Lord, I have a different boon to beg of you.” 

“Speak,” Voldemort said. “You have pleased me today, and I am of a mind to be generous.”

“I want Potter.” he said. Harriet couldn’t see Voldemort’s face, but his entire frame stiffened with rage. Blaise quickly stammered out a correction. “No, my Lord, I misspoke. I only wish a few hours with her… she has taunted me for months. I wish the chance to take what she has dangled before me… I ask no more than the chance to experience once what it will be your pleasure to have forever.”

Voldemort was silent for a long time. A clock on the desk ticked near Harriet’s ear. “I am inclined towards magnaminty today,” he declared. Harriet had counted one hundred and three ticks since Blaise had fallen silent. “Tomorrow, I will permit you, and others, if you desire, to spend no more than two hours in the cell with her and the others. None are to be irreparably harmed, though you may break the mudblood a little if you desire. She must only be well enough to serve as entertainment for my guests… as for this one, she must be well enough to begin immediately the task of bearing me my heir. With the correct rituals and potions, she could be pregnant within the month. Since she is sullied already, it makes no difference to me if she lies with you first.”

Harriet couldn’t help it. It suddenly all made sense: the stripping, the close examination… Voldemort wasn’t going to kill her- he was going to breed her! The contents of her stomach rebelled strongly, and she threw up, turning her head to the side just in time to spew the foul liquid over the highly-polished surface of the desk.

“Eeew,” Crabbe said, shrinking back. It was the first time Harriet had heard him speak; he didn’t sound like he’d gained any intelligence.

Voldemort turned to look at her with a pinched, wrinkled look on his face. “Clear it up,” he said to no one in particular, and swept out of the room. 

Malfoy vanished the spreading pile of acidic fluid with a sneer. “You had best learn to control your reactions, Potter. In a few days, you’ll be wrapped up in satin and lace, parroting a wedding.”

“You can’t be serious,” Harriet croaked. Lucius ended the  _ petrificus _ on her legs, returning their limited use to her. 

“Deathly so, girl,” he said with a cold grin. “Now that you’re no longer a risk to the Dark Lord’s life, it is his pleasure to use you to carry his heir. Soon, you’ll be filled with the Lord’s seed, and your belly will be large with his child. Be grateful, brat, it’s an honour that any of us would give up our daughters for.”

“You don’t have a daughter,” Harriet spat.

Lucius looked down at her, his eyes cold. “No, I don’t,” he agreed. “I just have a son who’s more cowardly than any girl.” He yanked her upright again, and she realised that Blaise was gone, leaving only a slightly green looking Crabbe in the corner. “Walk, girl,” Lucius said. “If you behave, I’ll let you clean up before leaving you in the cell again.”

“Do I get my clothes back?” she asked aggressively. Lucius just sneered. She supposed that meant no.

Slowly, since the short chain between her ankles didn’t allow much movement, Harriet stumbled forward, receiving a prod in the back from Lucius’ cane to steer her around the corridors. Eventually, they reached the door back down to the dungeons. Harriet cursed herself for not thinking of something, some way to incapacitate Malfoy and Crabbe, escape… but even if she did, she’d have left Ginny and Hermione behind, and she couldn’t abandon them. Her brain was numb. She could see some glimmer of hope in all this, and it was the only thing to stop her screaming… if there was to be some gathering of Death Eaters, then perhaps… hopefully… Severus would be there. Maybe he could think of something. If he at least knew where they were, maybe he could rescue them. She just hoped that Ginny and Hermione would survive long enough.

Lucius slapped at the back of her thighs with the cane to turn her left into a different room instead of into the cell. At first she was afraid that she was being separated from Ginny and Hermione, but she realised that it was a tiny room, rigged up with a showerhead and a drain in the floor. He was letting her wash the sour smell of her own vomit from her. A wave of his cane started the water, and he lounged in the doorway. “Get on with it,” he snapped. “I have better things to be doing than guarding you.”

The water was freezing, but Harriet welcomed it anyway. It made her feel a little less filthy, let her believe that she was washing some of Voldemort’s repulsive touch from her body. There was a little hard soap on a small indentation in the stone wall, and she struggled to work any lather from it. She gave up, smearing the slippery pebble across her body and then into her hair to wash out the sick that had landed in it. 

She was as quick as she could be, not wanting to antagonise Malfoy, and not wanting to spend too long being pelted by icy water. She stepped away from the spray, shivering, and looked about for a towel. There was none. “Come on,” Malfoy snapped. “Back into your room with you.”

Calling it a room was a bit rich, she thought. Cell would have been the correct term. “May I have a towel?” she asked, trying to sound compliant. He just sneered and pulled back the heavy bolt on the door, shoving her in with a firm hand to her back.

Hermione left to her feet. “Oh, Harriet, thank goodness, you’re okay, you’re alive,” she burbled, rushing forwards to embrace her friend. “You’re wet…”

“Yeah,” Harriet said, shivering. Hermione dashed to fetch one of the blankets, draping it around her. 

“Even your hair is soaked through,” Hermione said. “What happened?” She beckoned Ginny over. “Gin, come here,” she said. “She’s freezing, we need to try to warm her up.”

Ginny didn’t dare refuse. She tucked her blanket around Harriet’s shaking form too as Hermione wrung water from Harriet’s hair, splattering dark patches across the stone. “Malfoy let me wash,” Harriet said, her jaw clenched to try to keep her teeth from chattering. “I threw up on myself.”

“Did you see You-know-who?” Ginny asked fearfully.

“Yeah,” Harriet said with a brusque nod. She had to say it, no matter how difficult it was. “He... he wants me to carry his heir.” There. That sounded distant enough. It wasn’t ‘he wants to fuck me ‘til I’m up the duff’, which, true as it might be, sounded worse. Oh, Merlin… how on earth was she going to survive this? It had been bad enough having him touching her, but to have him inside her… to have a child? Her shiver wasn’t just down to the cold, and she felt nausea rise again. There was nothing left to throw up. She choked it back, drawing in huge lungfuls of air to suppress the feeling.

Both other girls gasped. “What?” Hermione asked, stunned. “I thought you were his great nemesis…”

Ginny interjected with “Eew! Is he even capable of, you know, doing it?”

Harriet glared at Ginny. “I suppose so, since he plans to,” she replied dryly. “Malfoy said that I wasn’t a danger to him anymore,” she admitted. “I don’t know why he’s suddenly decided that I’m more use alive than dead.” She beckoned both girls closer, her voice dropping to a barely-there whisper. “Look, there’s going to be some kind of party, wedding-thing with all the Death Eaters in two days. That’s got to be our best chance.”

“Our best chance?” Ginny burst out. “You think trying to…”

Hermione and Harriet shushed Ginny, wide-eyed. “They might be listening to us,” Hermione hissed. “And no, I’m not thinking we can run away from a merry band of Death Eaters. Just that perhaps there’ll be someone there who can help us.”

“Oh, please,” Ginny huffed, though she kept her voice lower now. “Like they don’t have anything better to do. And I wouldn’t be so sure that Snape’ll rescue us anyway. Yeah, he says he’s on our side, but how do we know he’s not actually on you-know-who’s side?”

Harriet and Hermione shared a look. They couldn't exactly tell Ginny how they knew, after all. “Well, it’s the best chance we have,” Hermione said firmly. “Did they tell you anything else, Harriet?”

Telling them that Blaise had been granted them as a reward didn’t seem to have much point other than to worry the other two, so she kept quiet. Better if they didn't dwell on it. “Not really,” she said.

 

***

 

Severus looked down at the note in his hand. He hadn’t thought it wise to trust news like this to writing, so it simply asked that Robin visit as soon as he was able. He was almost reluctant to even tell Robin that Harriet was missing, but it wasn’t something he could hide for long.

He looked around his son’s little flat, wishing again that he could do better for Robin. But the boy was right, living at Hogwarts would be impractical, though he spent so much time there lately that Severus wasn't so sure anymore. He laid the note down on the floor just in front of the door, where Robin couldn’t help but see it when he came in, then flicked his wand at the bed, snapping the blankets neatly into place. The clothes in a pile by the laundry basket were easily scooped up into the receptacle, and he straightened a fallen pile of books. He knew he was just procrastinating, not wanting to return to Hogwarts where he’d have to pretend to be more concerned about Blaise than Harriet and Hermione. Madam Zabini had been incandescent with rage when told he’d managed to ‘lose’ her precious son, and had no knowledge of his whereabouts. Severus didn’t know what to do next, and didn’t know if he should be informing the Dark Lord of Harriet’s disappearance. Dumbledore had been no help, confused and unsure as to the best course of action. The old wizard still didn’t believe that the girls had been taken to Voldemort, but Severus wasn’t sure. 

He’d have to share the news soon, he supposed. It could only be so long until even the Slytherin children started to wonder where their classmates were, and thus the information may reach the Dark Lord’s ears. He didn’t eagerly await the inevitable bout of cruciatus that would come the with unexpected news that her location was unknown.

 


	53. Draco's summoning

An eagle owl swooped down to Draco at breakfast, dropping a letter on heavy parchment, sealed with his father’s signet. Why was his father writing to him? he wondered, as he used a clean knife to break the heavy dollop of black sealing wax. Usually, it was his mother who sent news of home and small packages containing gifts- sweets, new quills and trinkets, sometimes a book or game. Was his mother unwell?

_ Draco, _ the note began tersely.

_ You are required at home. Inform Severus; we expect you by floo as soon as practicable. Do not tarry. _

_ L.M. _

Well, that cleared the situation up admirably. Draco sighed, and glanced up to the head table, where Severus was glaring at the room at large, as per usual. He’d have to try to catch him before first lesson. He wanted to ask where Blaise was too: he’d never returned to Slytherin last night. They was no great friendship bond between them anymore, not since… well. That was a mistake best left in the past. But he still wondered where the other boy was. They were Slytherins, after all. They stuck together when necessary. 

He watched, waiting until Severus got up to leave, then pushed his breakfast away to follow his head of house. “Sir?” he called as Severus was beginning the descent of the main dungeon stairs. 

“What is it, Draco?” Severus asked, trying to keep his annoyance down. It wasn’t Draco’s fault that he hadn’t slept last night, that his goddaughter and his… his what, student lover? were missing.

Draco offered up his father’s note- it couldn’t reasonably be called a letter. “I need to go home, Sir,” he said.

Severus took the note with a frown, his eyes glancing over the words. Lucius was short, as always. He did not waste words, much like Severus himself. “Very well,” he said. “Gather anything you need, and come to my office. You may use my floo connection.”

“I don’t need anything,” Draco said.

“Very well. I will inform your teachers of your absence. Come along.”

Severus swept around and simply expected Draco to follow. Draco was used to Severus, and simply went. “Professor,” he began, “Blaise wasn’t back last night…”

“Yes, I am aware,” Severus said shortly. Draco knew from his tone that no further information was to be forthcoming, so wisely kept his mouth shut. Severus thought what a difference there was between Draco and his fellow Slytherins, who simply assumed that Blaise must be elsewhere, and Ron Weasley, who had searched the castle for his friends before alerting the headmistress to their absence, and had then gone to another teacher when he didn’t feel Minerva had an appropriately concerned response.

Severus whirled on the spot as soon as the door to his office closed, his robes swirling around him. “Draco,” he began, “If there is anything of concern at home, I would appreciate it if you kept me abreast of the situation. I am here to support you, and any other student at the school.”

“Yes, Professor,” Draco said. “I… I think it may be my mother, Sir. Her health has been failing of late.”

Severus frowned. “Give your parents my best,” he replied, “and if your mother is in need of any potions to support her health, I am more than happy to provide them.”

“Thank you,” Draco replied. Severus took a pot of floo powder from a locked drawer and offered it to Draco, jerking his head towards the fireplace. He, like all the heads of house, had an active floo connection in his office. The fireplace in his private rooms connected only to his decrepit house at Spinner’s end, to Robin’s flat, and to Harriet’s room.

Malfoy Manor, like most homes connected to the main network, had a restricted connection, requiring a kind of password, shared amongst friends and family, to access. Draco, though, as a blood-born Malfoy, did not require any such fripperies. Severus, too, had been blood-bound at the time of Draco’s naming, and was able to come and go at will. The Malfoys preferred this more secure method of choosing their visitors, rather than widely spreading a passphrase which could be shared. Severus himself did not know the correct words, relying instead on the drop of his blood on the records for Malfoy wards. Sometimes, knowing that the Malfoys had access to a blood record of him made him nervous, but there was no dark magic in his considerable knowledge of the arts that could be performed with such a small amount of old blood.

Severus replaced his pot of floo powder and locked the drawer again with a tap of his wand. He looked at the clock on the mantel with a sigh: he had the second year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in ten minutes. He felt so powerless, teaching twelve year olds to brew shrinking solutions when he could be searching for Harriet and Hermione. He didn’t even know where to start, though, and he couldn’t pull in his usual contacts- the Death Eaters would take Harriet to Voldemort before bringing her to him. He just had to trust that the rest of the Order would be looking for them. He would help where he could. He’d spent the night in his lab with Robin, brewing up healing potions, at least until Robin had finally fallen asleep with his head on the workbench beside his cauldron at half past three in the morning. He was far too big for Severus to carry to bed anymore, and had to be levitated to his room, but it had felt a little like the times Severus had held the little body to him as he put his son to bed after a nightmare or a bout of illness. He could still remember the heat from the child as he held Robin during the long hours of a bout of dragon pox, coaxing potions and juice into him by turns. 

He knew that the infirmary was perfectly well stocked with potions, but it was something that he could do, something that he could provide if Harriet and Hermione came back to them and needed healing. At the moment, he was just holding out for ‘alive’, not even hoping for ‘unharmed’. But now, instead of doing something that might be helpful to them, he had the second years. He went through to his classroom to write their instructions on the board, only his long training in controlling his emotions stopping him throwing the chalk across the room instead. 

Draco, meanwhile, had stepped out of the floo into the echoing marble hall of the Manor. He hesitated, glancing up the sweeping staircase: if his mother was ill, she would be in bed. He could go to her there… but his father would most likely be in his study or the breakfast room. Better to find his father, he thought. Lucius may be angry if he did not report his compliance with the letter.

The Malfoy patriarch was in the breakfast room, frowning over the estate accounts. That could mean only one thing: the Dark Lord was in residence, and had taken the study for himself. Lucius always said that it was an honour to host the Dark Lord, but that didn’t mean he liked giving up his study. He looked up with a scowl at the disturbance. “Ah, Draco,” he said. “My thanks for responding so quickly.”

“Hello, father,” Draco said. “How is mother?”

“Hmm? Oh, she’s fine. She tires easily, as you know.”

Yes, Draco thought, most people were tired when they were drugged to the eyeballs, and none of it pepper-up. “I thought perhaps that she had taken a turn for the worse,” he suggested, wanting to know why he’d been summoned.

“No, no, she is quite well,” Lucius responded, setting his quill aside. “I called you here for quite a different reason.”

“Yes, Father?”

Lucius tapped his fingers sharply against his desk. “I was brought something of a gift, yesterday. It was something I had been hoping to receive from you, actually.” Draco frowned in confusion. A gift for his father? Luckily, Lucius continued before Draco had to start guessing. “Blaise Zabini has succeeded where you have failed. He has secured Harriet Potter for the Dark Lord.”

Draco had been trained from a very early age to school outward manifestations of emotion; as such, his face was carefully blank. “I see,” he allowed. “What I cannot see is how this must involve me. Surely the wench is dead and in a shallow grave by now.”

“No,” his father said, leaning back in his seat. He had not offered a chair to Draco. “His Lordship has decided to spare the life of the girl. Our friend Severus Snape has recently come by the full text of a prophecy made about the child before birth, hidden for years by Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord is inclined to use it to his advantage.”

Draco frowned. “I thought that he had dedicated years to the task of killing her,” he pointed out.

Lucius waved his hand regally. “Who are we to question the workings of a greater mind?” he philosophised. “I personally feel that there is still too much risk in leaving her alive, but he is certain that she is of more use alive. I must bow to his intellect. Nevertheless, I have called you here so that you might ingratiate yourself. The Dark Lord has given permission to Zabini to use the three prisoners-”

“Three?” Draco interjected hurriedly.

Lucius glared at the interruption. “Yes, boy, three- Potter, her mudblood friend Granger and the Weasley girl. As I was saying, the Lord has given Zabini the unfettered use of them today. He is mindful of sparing the Weasley girl’s life and keeping her as a helper and companion for Potter. You are to gain control over her- if she is to be a confidante, she will be able to report Potter’s movements, her wishes, desires, fears, even the details of her monthly cycle. All this is information that will be invaluable to the Dark Lord, and to the Malfoy family in gaining his continued favour.”

Draco thought that this was going a little too far, but it wasn’t for him to deny his father. “Have you any suggestion of how to go about it, father? Would a truth serum not be more effective?”

“Extended use of veritaserum is not recommended for mental coherency, stupid boy. It drives one past the point of insanity, and thus past our uses. For what purpose do I donate hundreds of galleons to Hogwarts each year if you do not even have basic knowledge? Potions are all very well, but there is a lot to be said for psychological methods. Shield the girl from Zabini, make her bow to you. Show her that you are a strong wizard. Make her rely on you. And show Zabini that you are a Malfoy, and far closer to the inner circle than he, a newcomer. We must rise to greater heights.”

“Yes, Father,” Draco said dutifully. He knew that it was his duty, he knew he’d failed his family… but he just couldn’t see why it was necessary to bow to family duty anymore.Why did it have to be about total domination of everything? Draco just didn’t have the same drive that his father did to reach the top of society, not if it meant killing anything and anyone that stood in your way. 

Blaise broke into his train of thought, swanning into the breakfast room as if it was his own home. “Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” Blaise said, conveniently ignoring Draco, who fumed. It was all very well his father saying he was out of favour, but to have the fact rubbed in his face by Blaise, a boy who’d looked to him as leader for six years… 

“Nice to see you here, Blaise,” Draco said, glossing over the other boy’s snub. 

“Oh, Draco, I didn’t notice you standing in the corner there,” Blaise said, a wide grin splitting his face. “Nice to see you, too.”

“We wondered where you were last night,” Draco said, moving over to the sideboard where breakfast was still laid out. He poured himself a cup of coffee, kept magically warm in the silver pot. “Will you be coming back today?”

“I don’t think I’ll be returning to Hogwarts,” Blaise said offhandedly, helping himself to a pastry. “I can’t see that they can teach me anything I can’t learn at the Dark Lord’s side.”

Lucius Malfoy gathered up his papers, leaving the young men. Draco had to learn to manage affairs alone, he mused, and now was as good a time as any. Really, the boy had been coddled by his mother. Politics was the Malfoy family business, and Draco needed to move beyond petty schoolboy power struggles. This was a good launching point. Lucius just hoped he didn’t blunder.

Draco seated himself at the table, now that his father was gone. At the head, of course: he was the Malfoy in the room, and he knew he should. “The Dark Lord has never taken followers who are not old enough to have finished NEWTS,” he pointed out.

Zabini smiled. “There’s a first time for everything,” he said cockily. “I’ve brought him the prize he’s searched for. Besides, he has followers who are our age: Crabbe is here, and Goyle joins in too. He just doesn’t mark them.” He paused, took a drink of his pumpkin juice. “He has invited me personally to the revel where he’ll bind Potter. He says that he admires my nerve in asking.”

Draco snorted. “I don’t think you could compare either of us with those goons,” he sneered. Zabini didn’t respond. Malfoy wasn’t getting anywhere with this tack, so he changed direction. “I hear you’ve been given playtime with your captives,” he said. 

Zabini gave a toothy grin. “As a reward for my efforts. I’ll show the Potter brat that she should never have crossed me.”

“You interested in company?” Draco said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve a bit of a bone to pick with the Weasley girl, too. Wouldn’t mind showing her that she belongs on her back, not the quidditch pitch.”

“Well, I can’t use them all at once,” Zabini admitted with a raised eyebrow. “I was going to see if Crabbe wanted some fun, but, hey, three girls… we may as well have one each. I get Potter, though. I’ve wanted her ever since that stunt you pulled.”

“You took that a bit to heart, you know,” Draco said. “Anyone would think you had set your cap at her.”

“That was you, if you recall, Malfoy,” Zabini reminded. Draco had to suppress a wince. Yes, it had been him. It had seemed such a good idea at the time. Everything had seemed to fall into place in September, and it had seemed a perfect plan....

He’d had a miserable summer with his Aunt Bellatrix. The woman truly did seem crazy, consistantly berating him for choosing anything but the most ruthless option at every turn. If there was an foodstuff that caused an evil disposition, he would have expected her to feed it to him morning, noon and night. His father threatened to cut him off, removing his access to the Malfoy fortune unless he fulfilled his task in killing Dumbledore, and soon. Draco didn’t much want to kill, didn’t want to be reviled by the world, and go into history as the killer of the great Albus Dumbledore. He also thought it was foolish- he, a schoolboy, kill the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald? It was laughable, and it was that which had finally driven him to Dumbledore, to confess everything. Draco Malfoy may not have been entirely his father’s son, but he knew when to jump a sinking ship.

Somehow, the Headmaster knew already. He wasn’t in the least surprised at a red, blotchy, tearful Draco, and he showed no horror at the prospect that Draco had intended to murder him. He’d assured Draco of protection by the light, if he wished to turn away from his family’s history. 

And so, Draco had begun to plan how best to distance himself. He’d tried to convince his mother to leave the Malfoy family. He’d failed. And he’d also failed in his other plan: to secure a fortune. If he could make Harriet Potter, heiress, fall in love with him, marry him, he’d be the legal owner of all her wealth. He’d persuaded Zabini to mimic a rape, from which he would rescue her, and thus secure her eternal gratitude and hopefully, her hand in marriage. 

Of course, the plan backfired. Potter wasn’t like other girls: she still retained her boyish tendencies, apparently, though if she took Granger as a role model in womanhood, it was no surprise that she’d fought Blaise. And she’d won. There was no gratitude for Draco. And so, he’d settled in for the long haul, trying to befriend her and woo her, and he still couldn’t comprehend why she was so resistant. She had no other suitors, no other boys she spent time with other than Weasley and Longbottom, and he was as sure as he could reasonably be that neither was in her knickers. The only explanation he could come to was some kind of hormonal deficiency on her part, making her dramatically under-sexed. 

What was done was done. That plan had failed. His best hope now was to make himself useful to his father, hope to retain some grace, and tread a careful middle line until a chance presented itself. Draco turned his attention from introspection back to Zabini, and lifted one shoulder. “You can have her. That’s fair enough, I suppose.You brought them in. I prefer a pureblood in any case, though I admit, having the Dark Lord’s future bride has it’s appeal. Knowing that you’ve been there, that you’ve plundered the same depths as such a great wizard…” 

Draco had wondered if he was laying it on a bit thick, but Blaise seemed to lap it up. “Maybe I can be persuaded to share, when I’ve had my fill,” he allowed with a wolfish grin. “They’re not to be really hurt- can’t have Potter not able to fulfil her wifely duties, after all, but I’m guessing a bit of roughing up won’t be beyond the pale.”

“Quite,” Draco said. He’d pulled a pastry over to him, but he’d quite lost his appetite. “When were you intending on taking your prize?”

Blaise popped the last of his breakfast in his mouth. “Oh, I thought after lunch. I thought I might take a little stroll about your grounds first. I rather like the look of your peacocks- an ostentation I can imagine adopting myself.”

“They’re my mother’s favourites,” Draco said mildly. “She likes the white ones best- they aren’t so showy. If you are to be occupied for the next few hours, I shall go to visit her.”

Blaise scooted back his chair to stand. “If you must,” he said. “I should prefer not to be around my mother… all she can ever think of is womanly concerns. I have a life to lead, after all.” 

He left his plate on the table, a few crumbs surrounding it. When he was sure Blaise had gone, Draco carefully brushed up the crumbs and emptied them onto the plate. 


	54. At the hands of darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Harriet’s bedside table, the cover of Winnie the Pooh opens by a few millimetres. An eye peeks out, then, slowly the cover is pushed all the way open. A grey donkey nudges his hooves out onto the table, growing as he climbs from the book. A minute later, Eeyore stands in front of the bed. He hangs his head. “There are bad people in the world, and bad things happen. You might want to skip this chapter if you’d rather avoid them… I can tell you when it's over…”
> 
> In other words, here’s a trigger warning for rape and assault. If you’d rather not read about it, there’s a little summary of important things that happen in the author’s note at the starred section in the middle.

Harriet was stumbling to her feet and scrabbling for her wand as the sound of the door opening started her out of a fitful nap. That, of course, was when she realised that not only did she not have her wand to draw, she also had no clothes. She clutched the blanket tighter around herself, hearing a rustle as Hermione stood as well. She’d slept, or rather, tried to sleep, under her cloak, sacrificing her blanket as a slight covering between their bodies and the stone floor, curling close around Harriet to try to share body warmth.

Harriet wondered if Crabbe held some sort of official position as prison guard. She watched him warily as he strode in, followed by Zabini. Harriet realised with a lurch that this must be it, Zabini’s ‘reward’. Lastly, Draco Malfoy filed in, and leaned nonchalantly against the wall as Crabbe locked the door behind them with a simple locking spell- one that could be broken by anyone with a wand. Zabini was crossing to Ginny, still sleepily coming to. Harriet had wondered if she’d taken a blow to the head; she was the only one of the three who seemed able to sleep for any length of time.

She caught Malfoy’s eye. It was a split second thing. He blinked slowly, inclined his head ever so slightly as if giving her permission. That was odd, but it didn’t change her plan. As Crabbe turned from the door, his wand still in his hand, she lunged across the few steps between them, snatching it out of his hands and yelling “ _Stupefy_!”

She’d whirled to do the same to Zabini when she realised nothing had happened. Crabbe and Zabini laughed, and a second later, so did Malfoy. With a toothy grin, Zabini plucked the stubby wand from her unresisting, shocked fingers. He sent it flipping end over end through the air to Crabbe. “You’re as useless as a muggle now,” he told her. One finger stroked the cuffs. “There are some nice charms in these. Did you know that they use the same kind on high risk prisoners in Azkaban?”

Harriet reached her hands for his throat, not really thinking out what would happen if she actually managed to strangle him. Zabini gripped her wrists before she even got there, his large hands encircling the joints easily. At the same time, a massive force grabbed her around the shoulders and flung her across the room. She impacted the wall with a high pitched screech, her recently healed collarbone popping in a strange way and a blinding pain lancing up her arm. Sparks of pain radiated from the ankle she’d stumbled over and landed on. She blinked bright spots from her vision to realise the sound of her scream hadn’t stopped: Hermione had taken it up, launching herself at Zabini whilst Crabbe held Ginny down, stopping her from joining in. Hermione landed one resounding slap across Zabini’s face before he’d muttered the incantation to bind her cuffs, snapping her wrists together, then her ankles, toppling her to the floor.

Draco bent over Harriet. “Still with us, Potter?” he asked dryly. She nodded, and he pushed her wrist cuffs gently together, binding them too. He left her ankles free. “Hey, Blaise, you weren’t meant to break her. I think her arm’s shattered.”

Blaise shrugged. “Easy enough to fix later. The Dark Lord’s having a healer visit later anyway- something about fertility potions. He might as well heal her when he’s here. Let the bitch have the pain for now. She deserves it, after all.” He nudged at Hermione with the toe of his boot. “Hey, mudblood,” he said, low and intimidating. “Let’s have a show. Strip.”

Hermione glared up at him. “Not in a million years, you sick bastard,” she spat back.

“My parents were married at the time of my birth. I can’t make the same assurances for yours,” Zabini replied. He reached down and yanked at the clasp of her cloak, ripping it from the fabric and casting the metal into a corner.

“Get off me!” Ginny said, over and over, trying to wiggle free of Crabbe.

“No,” Crabbe said with a gummy grin. “You’re my plaything.”

“Not so fast, Vincent,” Draco cut in. “I want the pureblood.” Crabbe huffed, but climbed off Ginny. She drew in a deep, shaky breath, sitting up and eyeing Malfoy furtively. He straightened from his crouch beside Harriet. “You can have the mudblood to play with,” Draco intoned. Hermione groaned. She’d finally realised what was going on.

“Please,” she begged quietly. “Please, you don’t need to do this…”

Zabini looked down at her with a cocked eyebrow. “No, I don’t need to, but I want to,” he said. “I get what I want. And I’m going to unwrap you like a present, Granger, because you’ve always been such a stuck up little bitch. I reckon Malfoy and Crabbe can wait a minute to get hands on you whilst I enjoy it.” He wrapped his fingers into the front of Hermione’s robes and pulled upwards, dragging her to her feet. She stumbled, trying to find her balance, and he began to pop the buttons off her blouse beneath her robe, yanking down methodically. They clicked as they hit the floor, a slow rain of destroyed modesty. Silent tears tracked down Hermione’s cheeks as she tried to writhe away. She finally succeeded in flinging her weight against him. He stumbled, not expecting the force she mustered.

“Mudblood bitch,” he hissed, then, one hand still fisted in her robes, he pulled his wand from his sleeve. “ _Crucio._ ”

Hermione’s mouth opened in a soundless scream, her head thrown back and her legs flopping from under her. He held the spell until he’d ripped her blouse and robes from her, leaving her half naked and whimpering. A cutting spell sliced through her bra, leaving a shallow gouge between her breasts that shimmered with a droplet of blood. “I’ve heard that girls feel great when they’re cruicioed mid-sex,” he said conversationally to the other two wizards. “I’ve always wanted to try it. Bet you know, eh, Malfoy, if you’ve been to revels?”

Draco made a noncommittal noise, moving across the cell like room to stand over Ginny. She looked up at him, her brown eyes meeting his cold grey-blue ones. He crouched beside her. “Will you undress, Weasley, or shall I do it for you?” he asked, his voice low. “It will go easier if you do it.”

With trembling hands, Ginny reached up to her neck to unfasten her cloak. She didn’t want to do this, but she didn’t want to experience the pain of the cruciatus curse either.

Zabini laughed. “Look. The mudblood’s as bare as a child,” he chortled. Harriet looked up to see what he meant. Yes, Hermione was now completely naked, but wasn’t that the point of the exercise? It wasn’t until he roughly kicked her legs apart that she realised what he meant. Hermione had no pubic hair. She was openly sobbing now, her hair matted across her face. He spun her and shoved her towards Crabbe, but, unsurprisingly, she stumbled and fell, landing on her knees and elbows, unable to break her fall.

“What’s this?” Zabini asked, peering down at her. “Boys, our mudblood’s a little slut!” He bent over her, one hand in the small of her back. Hermione screamed. Zabini held up something silvery. “She had her arse all plugged up!” He dropped whatever was in his hand, and it gave a dull metallic thud as it hit the floor, bouncing once. “Maybe she prefers it up the arse. Find out for us, will you, Crabbe?” He turned his attention to Harriet instead.

Hot rage was bubbling in her chest. She wanted to scream, to run, to cry, but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction. She met his eyes dully. He reached for her glasses, as if to take them off, but withdrew his hand with a sick smile. “No,” he said, as much to himself as her. “I think you should see all of this.”

It hurt when Zabini shoved her to the floor and pushed her legs apart, forcing them high and wide, arching her back and displaying everything to his hungry eyes. He forced into her dry, and she threw her head back, not completely able to suppress her sounds of pain. He grinned cruelly and thrust harder. She shut her eyes, turning her head to the side. She heard Hermione groan in pain, but nothing from Ginny. She hoped that perhaps Draco was being gentler with her, and it wasn’t because he’d silenced her. She tried to think of anything else but the sandpaper drag of Zabini inside her. He was bigger than Robin, she thought, and it hurt, the sharp pain at his inward thrust matched by a bruising ache of pressure deep inside.  He slammed into her, and she couldn’t help the grunt of pain as he shoved against her tender cervix. She tried to think of something else, anything else. She thought about lessons. She wondered if she’d have gotten into the Wizarding colleges.

After what seemed like an eternity, Zabini stilled over her, panting. He drew back, still keeping her legs painfully pressed to the sides and looked down at her. Malfoy, looking cool and collected, gazed down at them. “She’s a fucking mess, Zabini,” Draco said. “Merlin, she’s actually bleeding. She was a virgin?”

Zabini sat back on his heels. “Nope. Just fucking tight.” He pulled out his wand. “ _Aguamenti,_ ” he intoned, and a strong jet of freezing water sprayed against Harriet’s swollen, aching vulva. She screeched in surprise, in pain, in cold. “Probably shouldn’t send her to the Dark Lord in such a mess.” He seemed to deliberately aim the icy water against her sensitive clit, and she sobbed. The stream redirected inside her, the force opening her and leaving icy spikes shooting into her stomach and up her spine. “Hey, Vincent, you done, or d’you want a taste of this one too? Not sure Draco’ll let you touch the Weasley girl.”

Crabbe kicked Hermione in the side. She curled into a foetal position, still shaking from the aftereffects of cruciatus. “Nah, I’m done for now,” he said. “I’ve spilt my seed, and twice over; what more is there to do with a witch? You were right. They feel good when they tighten with _crucio._ ”

“Nice not to have to pretend you care about their pleasure,” Blaise agreed. “After all, not like we have to keep these ones sweet!” he tucked his softening cock back into his trousers. “Come on, lads, I feel the need for some refreshment after that.”

As soon as the door closed, Harriet rolled and tried to drag herself to Hermione. She gasped as her arm collapsed from under her: she couldn’t put any weight on it at all. The ankle that had fallen under her was swelling around the cuff, sending pain radiating up her leg. On her good side, she tried to wiggle closer.

Ginny was up first. She rolled to her feet, collecting a blanket and tucking it around Hermione’s trembling form. Hermione moaned as the fabric touched her skin, flinching. Thick white strings of Crabbe’s come leaked from her, and a small stain of blood was forming on the floor beneath her. Ginny looked up at Harriet, her eyes wet with tears. “I hate them,” she said. “I thought I hated you. I was wrong. I hate Zabini. If I had my wand, I could kill him without a moment of remorse for what he’s done.”

Harriet looked up at Ginny wearily. “Did Malfoy hurt you?”

Ginny shook her head. “He barely touched me,” she said quietly, puzzled. “He didn’t, you know… He kind of stuck his dick between my legs, not into me. He wasn’t even hard. He said… he said he was sorry. What’s going on, Harriet?”

Harriet sunk her head down onto her good arm. “I have no idea, Gin,” she said softly. Ginny covered her too.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

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Author’s note:

Eeyore raises his head from his hooves. “It’s over now. Here, have a thistle, they always make me feel better…”

 

For anyone who didn’t want to read that scene and wants a summary: Blaise rapes Harriet, Crabbe rapes Hermione, and Draco pretends to rape Ginny, but actually doesn’t.

 

On with the story!

 

**************************************************************************************************

Severus was collecting a pile of marking from his office when his floo flashed to life. He turned, hoping it was Draco.

The boy who stepped from the fire white as a sheet. He looked up at Severus. “Uncle Severus?” he asked shakily. Severus frowned- Draco hadn’t called him Uncle since before he’d started at Hogwarts. “I think I need to see Professor Dumbledore.”

“Is your mother unwell?” Severus asked. “We had best seek permission from Professor McGonagall if you need to return home for some time.”

Draco shook his head. “No, I need Dumbledore,” he insisted. He needed to tell Dumbledore… he knew what was going on… Only he could help.

Severus peered down at his godson. “Professor Dumbledore isn’t seeing students for the time being, Draco. What is wrong? Perhaps I can help?”

Draco looked up at his stern Head of House. How much could he say, he wondered? If Severus reported back to Draco’s father that he was sickened by what he had seen, what he’d had to do… He began to shake. Draco couldn’t see how anyone could enjoy that, enjoy causing such pain. Some rubbish Death Eater he would have made.

Severus gripped Draco’s shoulders. “Tell me,” he urged.

Draco slowly took a breath. “I’ve seen something... And I know Dumbledore will be interested.”

Severus frowned down at him. “What, Draco?” he asked roughly. “Some dark artifact, perhaps?” Draco shook his head, and Severus turned over how distressed Draco was. Without warning, he grasped Draco’s left arm and pushed up the sleeve roughly, having to suppress a sigh of relief when he saw that the flesh of his forearm was pale and clear, unmarred by the brand of the Dark Lord. Then, something clicked. “Draco, have you seen Harriet Potter?” he snapped.

Dumbly, shocked, Draco nodded.

“Come with me. We’re going to Dumbledore,” Severus said, keeping his hand around Draco’s wrist. He swept from his office, the wards springing into place behind him and Draco trailing helplessly along. He kept up as best he could, not wanting the indignity of tripping or stumbling. Luckily, the corridors were quite empty at this time, the short time between lessons and dinner when everyone retreated outside if the weather was good, or to their common room fires if it was poor.

Severus barked the password (macaroon) to the head’s office to the gargoyle. The staircase began to move, but the potions professor took them two at a time, Draco scrambling after him. He slammed the door to to the office open with a bang. It was empty, but that didn’t deter him. The door in the corner led to another winding spiral staircase. At the top was a warm little sitting room, and, in an oversized red armchair, a shrunken Albus Dumbledore. Severus pushed Draco forward. “Speak,” he barked.

Albus let his book fall to his lap. “Severus, what is the meaning of this?” he asked. Severus just prodded Draco in the back.

The blond took a deep breath. “I went home today, Professor,” he said. “In my father’s cellars, I found Harriet Potter, Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger.”

“You’re sure?” Albus asked.

“Positive,” Draco replied, still too shaken to manage the withering tone he had aimed for. “They… that is, You-know-who plans to bind Potter to him as some kind of slave bride. He wants her to have his children. Something about a prophecy…”

Severus swore.

“Do you know the text of the prophecy?” Albus asked.

Draco shook his head, but Severus spoke instead, his voice low and quiet. _“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... Neither can die but by the paired wand of the other, and whilst they both survive, their power will be great... power births power, and their strength will grow as they live... neither can die but by the paired wand of the other…_ ” He fell silent for a moment, his hands clasped solemnly before him. “I knew it was a foolish idea, Albus! Didn’t I say it was foolish to give him what he wanted, to tell him the rest of the prophecy?”

“I had hoped that giving him a false prophecy would buy us time, buy time for Harriet to study, for Neville to study. I wished to distract him…”

“You distracted him so much as to turn his head completely,” Severus hissed. “He now thinks it wise to breed her! If you will not act to save Harriet, I will.”

“Severus, you cannot expose yourself! You are too valuable as a spy,” Albus insisted weakly. ““I will notify the Order, and it will be dealt with as soon as we can.” he said. “Thank you, Draco. You showed great courage in coming here to tell me. I am certain that we will have them safe within a week.”

“A week?” Severus burst out. “That’s too long, Albus! If the Dark Lord uses a binding ritual on her, it will be too late! Her life force will be tied to his. Miss Granger and Miss Weasley may well be dead by then!”

Confused, Draco spoke up. “The revel where he’ll bind her is tomorrow,” he offered. “Uncle Severus, you’re a spy?”

Severus looked down at Draco with sparkling onyx eyes. “I am, and I see you have been doing your part for the light as well. Come, Draco. We will leave the Headmaster to contact the relevant people and set his plans in motion.”

“But…” Draco said.

Severus glared at him. “Come, Draco.” He turned and marched out of the room, back down the stairs. After a confused look at the Headmaster (who gave him a benign smile) Draco followed. “Uncle Severus,” he called. “What will we do?”

Severus whirled to face him in the Head’s office. “Will you help?” he asked, low and urgent.

Draco nodded.

“You would give an oath to it?” Severus asked. He would prefer an unbreakable vow, but in the absence of a third party to verify it, a magical oath would have to do.

Draco took a breath. “I, Draco Malfoy, will give unto you any assistance necessary to rescue my father’s prisoners,” he said quietly, flipping his wand to offer the handle to Severus.

“I accept your oath,” Severus replied. As soon as the older man touched the wand, magic sparked between them. It was an oath, not so strong as an unbreakable vow, but enough that it would cause anyone who broke it some considerable pain. Severus brushed against Draco’s mind with the lightest touch of legilimancy. He sensed only horror at what had happened, a desire to right the wrongs. Either Draco was unexpectedly an excellent occlumens, or he was truthful. “Come to my rooms,” he said. His pace was punishing, Draco half jogging to keep up with the taller man.

Robin had been lying listlessly on his bed, toying with the swallow that Harriet liked to watch dive around when he heard the door to his father’s chambers open. He sprung up, though he checked his pace when he realised Severus was not alone. He and Draco stared at each other for some seconds.

Severus sighed. “Here again, Robin?” he asked. Robin nodded. He’d gone to his lecture at his father’s insistence. He’d skipped his seminar, and he’d been sent away from the cafe when he kept messing up. He’d explained that his girlfriend was ill, not able to tell them that she was missing without people wondering why there wasn’t a manhunt. “We’ve found her, Robin. She’s alive, she’s being held at Malfoy manor. This is Draco Malfoy- he has informed us of her whereabouts. Draco, this is Robin, my son, and Harriet’s boyfriend.”

Draco’s eyes widened, but his Malfoy training was better than to let him bombard Severus with questions as he wanted. Robin spoke first, directly to Draco. “Is she okay?” he asked.

Draco bit his lip. “She… she’s alive, and she was conscious when I left her. She has some broken bones, I think, and she was raped by Zabini.” His face contorted into a scowl. “He’s a fucking monster. How does you-know-who do it? He takes a  person, and he warps them, and destroys any goodness that was ever in them!”

“Power,” Severus said, but anything more was lost when Robin drew their attention.

The sofa began to smoulder where Robin’s fingers were tightly gripping the back, then flame. He gasped, snatching his fingers from the flames. Severus had already whipped out his wand, dousing the fire. He looked up at his son. “You had to wait until your twentieth birthday to manifest accidental magic?” he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On another note entirely, I've had a few people complain about my assertion that most pureblood families prefer not to have a firstborn female. I've added a new chapter note way back on chapter two; if you're interested, go back and give it a read.


	55. In the Manor

Robin looked down at his hands. His fingers were reddened by the flames, and Severus picked one up by the wrist, healing the minor burns easily with a pass of his wand. “It’s happened before,” Robin admitted quietly.

“You’ve set things on fire before?” Severus asked with a raised eyebrow.

Robin shook his head. “No. But after Mum died, stuff sometimes moved when I got angry. I cut my hair when someone laughed at it last year, and it grew back overnight. I used to nick your wand when you weren't looking, try spells. I managed sparks, but that's it. You always said you thought I’d be capable of some magic with a wand and training...”

“Oh, Robin,” Severus sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Robin shrugged. “I didn’t want to upset you,” he said quietly. “I know you were disappointed in me, that I didn’t have magic- enough magic.. I didn’t want to remind you, I guess. It was too late to do anything about it anyway.”

Severus frowned. “You should have told me. There is nothing to be done at this moment, in any case.” He patted Robin on the shoulder and turned back to a confused Draco. “Will the Manor be quiet tonight?” he asked.

“Everyone is usually in their rooms by eleven,” Draco said.

Severus nodded. “Midnight then. Stay here, if you please, Draco. Rest a little, and we will go at midnight. I must prepare.”

“I want to help,” Robin broke in, almost petulantly.

“Robin, there is no need,” Severus assured him in clipped tones. “The fewer the better; we must avoid notice. You do not know the manor, we do.” He neglected to mention that the blood wards wouldn’t even allow Robin entry: it seemed unduly cruel to draw attention to his lack of status

“Dad,” Robin wheedled. Severus held up a hand, giving Robin a hard, cold look. Robin bowed his head in submission. He’d seen that look too many times before, and he’d never won the battle. “If you wish to help, perhaps you could brew up some fresh dreamless sleep,” Severus suggested. “They may need it.”

With a final glare, Severus was gone, leaving Robin and Draco staring at each other. “So,” Draco said eventually, “Severus has a son.”

“Yeah,” Robin said shortly. “I’m a squib, as you may have gathered. He doesn’t like to to talk about me.”

He glared at Draco, almost daring the other boy to say something. Draco just met his gaze levelly. Squibs were of as much concern to him as muggles- that is to say, not at all. “Wait…” he burst out, realisation dawning. “Snape said Harriet is your  _ girlfriend _ ?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Explains why she wasn’t sleeping with anyone here,” Draco said. “You should let a wizard have her, you know- we should stick to our own kind, and you to yours, or to muggles. No use wasting her magic producing squib children. More and more squibs are being born, anyway.”

“That’s Harriet’s choice to make, not yours,” Robin snapped, and turned to go back to his room. He always felt unreasonably tired after any accidental magic; this time was no different to the previous ones. He’d sleep, then brew. Dreamless sleep was easy; he could practically make it blindfolded. He threw himself back onto his bed. Relief that Harriet had been found mingled with fear of the state she’d be in, fear that she might not be rescued, that it would all go wrong… He pulled a pillow over his face, trying to block out the world. 

Severus, meanwhile, knocked firmly on the door to Minerva’s personal rooms. She hadn’t been in the head’s office, and since Albus was still in the quarters above, she retained her old rooms near Gryffindor tower. She had clearly been marking when she answered: a quill with a smear of red ink at the nib dangled from her fingers. “Come in, Severus,” she invited. “Will you have some tea? Something stronger?”

“Actually, Minerva, I need something rather more than a drink. Are you able to bypass the portkey wards on the castle?”

“I am,” she hedged carefully.

“In that case, I need a portkey. One large enough to be used for several people.”

Minerva looked at him with calculation in her eyes. “It is probably best that I don’t ask why, isn’t it, Severus?” she said. “After all, I wouldn’t want to have to tell Albus where you have gone.”

“That would be wise,” he agreed. 

Minerva nodded, and picked up a tartan scarf from a coat stand in the corner. “I’m afraid I can only bypass the wards enough to allow a portkey into the head’s office,” she explained apologetically. He inclined his head in agreement. A few muttered words and a flick of her wand later, and she handed it to Severus. He took it, but she didn’t immediately let go. “Godspeed, Severus. Bring them home safe.” she beseeched. 

“I’ll do my best,” he promised sincerely.

It was  a few minutes from midnight when Severus shook Draco awake. The boy had fallen asleep on the sofa, worn out from the stress of the day. Draco sat bolt upright. Severus held out a cup of coffee. He didn’t drink the foul tasting stuff, but he knew that it woke Draco effectively. “Ready?” he asked.

Draco nodded. “Just us?” he queried.

“The fewer people the better,” Severus informed him. “I need you to bypass the blood wards into the cellars. Come, we need to go to my office to floo in.”

Nerves knotted in Draco’s stomach, but Severus stood firm and tall beside him. He didn’t know that his godfather was just as nervous as he. “I shall follow immediately,” Severus told Draco, offering the floo powder. He’d already shaken a little into a smaller pot, tucked into the pocket of his voluminous robes. Just in case the portkey didn’t work. 

Draco tried to swallow the nervous lump in his throat, and took a pinch. His voice shook as he said “Malfoy manor,” and he was gone. Severus followed.

Shadows wreathed the marble entrance hall, three beams of light cutting through from the tall windows. The moon was full, giving the light a bright, cold edge, like knives slicing down across the pale stone. Draco shivered. Malfoy manor was not a comfortable house, not really a home to anyone, but he’d never felt so very unwelcome here before. He barely breathed, and, even though he’d seen Severus come through the floo, he flinched when the dark figure laid a hand on his shoulder, nodding towards the doorway that would lead them down to the cellars. Draco wondered how Severus knew where the cellars were, and about the blood ward on the door, meaning that only the head of the Malfoy household and his direct blood descendants could enter. Not even Severus, blood-bound as he was to the family, would be able to get in unaccompanied by either Lucius or Draco. On second thoughts, perhaps it was better not to know how Severus knew these things. Draco stepped across the hard marble as quietly as he could, his shoes making the slightest of clicks as he went. Severus was utterly, completely silent, just a shadow in the shadows. He even kept his head down, his dark hair hiding the pallor of his skin. 

Luckily, they were soon on carpet, and Draco moved as silently as Severus. The lamps were doused for the night, giving off just enough light that the house elves would be able to see to clean. Draco hadn’t considered the house elves, but none were here, in any case. They must be polishing and dusting in another part of the manor. 

It seemed too easy. Draco was stiff, his wand in his hand as the crept along the corridors, waiting for something. Severus was just prepared. Even if he didn’t succeed, the Order were aware. His life was worth less than the three girls, Severus rationalised. He would do the best he could. If he failed… they still had a chance. He just hoped that in that case Draco would be able to explain all this away in some rational manner.

Draco paused at the heavy wooden door. This was the last chance he had to turn back, to be a follower of Voldemort and a pride to his father. As soon as he opened this door, it would be obvious that he had assisted in this endeavour. It might be enough to make his father disown him, a fate Lucius had been threatening for the last year, ever since it became clear that he wasn’t making progress in his task of killing Dumbledore, or in finding a way for the Dark Lord and Death Eaters to gain access to the school. Severus gave him a second, then touched him on the shoulder again, inclining his head towards the door. Draco brushed it with his wand. The simple whispered “ _ Alohomora _ ,” sounded unnaturally loud, but no one jumped from the shadows, no klaxons sounded, and the door clicked open. Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

The stone steps were dark. Severus carefully felt his way down a few steps, his hand wrapped around Draco’s upper arm, before gently pulling the door to behind them and plunging them into utter darkness. Then he lit his wand tip, and both of them squinted in the light. “Second cell,” Draco murmured.

“Who is in the first?” Severus asked, gesturing to the fastened bolt. Draco shrugged. “Find out,” Severus instructed.

The bolt on the second cell door slid back easily. Severus thought he heard something from inside; a cry, a whimper, perhaps. He swung the door open, his wand-light giving a faint glow to the sparse stone room beyond. A trembling, blanketed heap occupied one corner. He heard what sounded like a stifled sob coming from it. “Harriet?” he whispered. “Hermione? Miss Weasley?”

Hermione’s tousled head rose from the blankets. “Severus?” she said cautiously. He realised that he was behind the light; they wouldn’t be able to see him. He raised his wand so it would illuminate his face. “Severus!” A mass of black hair joined Hermione’s head, and his wand-light reflected off the coppery hair and freckles of Ginny too. Hermione was scrambling unsteadily to her feet, stumbling the couple of feet to him, flinging herself into his arms. He wrapped them around her shaking form, holding her tightly for an instant. Ginny, though, was backing into a corner, looking slightly green. Her eyes darted between him and the open door behind him, ready to make a run for it.

“It’s okay, Gin,” Harriet said weakly, still lying prone on the hard floor. “He’s not here to hurt us. He’s not like the others. Promise.” Ginny didn’t look convinced.

Severus kissed the top of Hermione’s head. “We need to get you out of here,” he said. He bent his head over Hermione’s manacled wrists, and tapped the metal with his wand.  _ Alohomora _ didn’t work, though. Nor did  _ vapertia _ . Severus tried every unlocking spell he could think of in quick succession, with no luck. “There’s no time,” he said. “We can deal with these later, back at Hogwarts. Harriet, Ginny, come here.” He held out the tartan scarf to them.

Harriet smiled weakly. “A portkey?” she asked. “Sorry. You’ll have to bring it here. I don’t think I can move,” she whispered. 

Severus frowned, crossing to her. He decided it was best not to ask questions at this moment, though seeing the swollen flesh of her ankle spilling around the silvery cuff, he had a good idea. Her foot was cool to the touch, and he thought it best not to comment on the fact that she was wrapped only in what looked to be Ginny’s cloak, threadbare and slightly too large, having been handed down through successive Weasley siblings. Hermione’s blouse hung raggedly open. showing a glimpse of milky breast, and, worryingly, a smear of blood. Severus carefully slipped his hands under Harriet. She whimpered when he jostled her shoulder. “Sorry,” he murmured. 

“S’okay,” Harriet said. “Please can we just get out of here?”

He gave a weak smile as he lifted her as carefully as he could against his chest. “We can. We must fetch Draco first, though; he’s outside.” He looked at the other two girls. “Can you walk, at least a little?” he asked. 

“Course we can,” Hermione said with forced jollity. “C’mon, Gin,” She took the younger girl's wrist.

“Why do you trust him?” Ginny hissed. “How do you know he’s actually going to help?”

“I just do,” Hermione said firmly. “Come on, I don’t think you want to stay here.” She tugged a little on Ginny’s arm. Ginny sighed. Hermione was right: even if it was out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire, it was better than staying here alone. She allowed herself to be pulled forward, and Severus gave a satisfied nod, turning to push open the door. 

“Ah, Severus, so good of you to join us,” Bellatrix purred as soon as he appeared. “ I heard a disturbance in my night-time wanderings, and found the cellar door unlocked and quite unguarded… It seems that young Draco here wants a bit more of the prisoners than he was given… although why he picked the old man, I’m not sure… It looks like you have found the more amusing entertainment.”

Severus took in the scene in a glance. Bellatrix must have lit the lamps in the corridor, and her corkscrew curls fanned out around her face in a nimbus, the light shining through it. Her lips were as cherry bright as always- in her youth, she’d been a truly beautiful woman, but that was before the ravages of Azkaban got to her. Now her eyes were crazed, her face lined and her skin slack. Her mind was as disordered as her appearance, and, at that moment, she had her wand pressed against the side of Draco’s throat. The boy looked as if all the blood in his body had been drained away, he was so pale. He barely breathed, his eyes wide and terrified. Bellatrix’s pointed red nails dug painfully into his arm. 

Severus’ eyes flicked away for a second to the filthy old man leaning against the wall. Ollivander. He hadn’t been seen in months, mysteriously vanishing from his home one night. 

Harriet had stiffened in his arms the second she’d seen Bellatrix. Severus didn’t need more than the few moments of Bella’s speech to decide what to do. His wand had slipped from the leather holster around his arm and into his hand. Moving as suddenly as he could, though he knew it would probably hurt Harriet, he raised it, swinging it into a careful arc to strike directly at Bella’s face, the only part not protected by Draco. “ _ Avada Kedavra. _ ”

Green light flashed off the stark stone walls. Bellatrix’s gave a short, strangled cry. Her mouth was open, her wand raised towards Severus as she died, crumpling down. Draco pulled away from her slight weight, spinning to watch her sink bonelessly to the floor, no breath left in her body, no more heartbeats. Harriet turned her head to hide in the comforting black cloth of Severus’ robes. Severus held out the tartan scarf. “It is best that we leave immediately,” he said. “Her shout may have alerted others. We need to get out of the cellars so we can portkey out. Mr. Ollivander, if you can trust me, take the portkey too.” Severus marched up the few steps to the corridor above.

Mr. Ollivander followed, then grasped the tassels with a painfully thin hand. “I sold you your wand,” he said, looking up at Severus. “Hawthorn and dragon heartstring, and I know the conflict in your heart. I will trust that the good in you wins out.”

Draco, still shaky from his brush with his aunt, looked up at Severus. “My mother…” he whispered. 

Severus shook his head. “I’m sorry, Draco. We cannot. There is no time. Will you come back to Hogwarts?”

After a second of anguished hesitation, Draco gripped the scarf. Hermione pulled Ginny forward to grip it too. Draco had to loop the scarf over Harriet’s broken arm, as she was clinging to Severus with her good one. “ _ Portus activus _ ,” Severus murmured, and braced himself for the disorientating sensation of portkey travel, clinging as tightly as he could to Harriet, trying to minimise the jostling. 

Minerva’s chin jerked up from where it had rested on her chest in fitful slumber, a pile of parchment forgotten before her as she slept. A thump, and another, and a tangle of limbs and hair and people popped into being in the middle of the room. “Severus?” she asked stupidly as she leapt to her feet. She started to be able to discern individuals within the tangle of limbs. Yes, Severus, and Harriet Potter. Ginny Weasley was easily found, her red hair a flaming beacon. Hermione Granger, and… was that Draco Malfoy? And who was the figure with the long grey hair, knotted and snarled and filthy?

Severus’ voice cut through into her consciousness. “I need Filius and Poppy here, now,” he snapped, fighting his way to his feet whilst still holding Harriet, who was gasping for breath.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Minerva babbled, tossing floo into the fire to call for both Poppy and Filius. The matron responded immediately, used to midnight calls, but it took a few shouts through the fireplace in Filius’ quarters to rouse him. By the time she had managed, Madam Pomfrey had arrived the old fashioned way, letting herself in through the door since the fireplace was occupied. 

“What on earth is going on?” she asked, then, seeing the three girls, gave a cry. “They’re back!”

“They are,” Severus said. He’d moved to a chair, holding Harriet close against him. She had hidden her face in the front of his robes, disliking the confusion and bustle. She wished that Severus would just take her to his quarters, heal her broken bones, and put her to bed in Robin’s room, where the pillows would smell of her lover. “Rather the worse for wear, I fear. I think our primary concern must be freeing them from their shackles, however: No charm I could think of has worked. I had hoped that Filius could help.” He nodded towards the diminutive wizard appearing through the floo.

“What is it?” Filius asked, rubbing his eyes, his nightgown trailing about his ankles. “Oh! Oh!” he squealed, looking around him. “They’ve come back!”

“Filius, please, quickly. We need to get these cuffs off, I don’t know any spells that have worked. Miss Potter first, please, it’s restricting blood flow to her foot.” Severus twitched the cloak covering Harriet to show her swollen ankle. The Charms master pulled out his wand from somewhere, frowning down at the metal.

“What on earth had happened?” Flitwick wanted to know. “These… these are terrible things. Layer upon layer of charms…” he began to mutter almost to himself, tapping and stroking with his wand. “Magic dampeners, confusion charms... “

Poppy had Hermione’s chin in her hands, peering down at her intently. “Yes,” she said. “What has happened?”

“I would also like the answer to that question,” Albus declared, leaning heavily on the wall as he descended the steps. “I am woken in the middle of the night by all this ruckus. Severus, my boy, what have you done?”

The room suddenly fell silent. Even Flitwick looked up from his deep concentration. “He rescued us, Professor,” Harriet said boldly. 

“I would like to hear this tale from Professor Snape, Harriet,” Albus said. Minerva vacated the chair she had sunk into, the excitement a little too much for her. Albus walked slowly over to it, supporting himself on the desk. “My dear Garrick, what are you doing here?” Dumbledore asked, spying Mr. Ollivander, quite forgotten in all the bustle. Someone, probably Draco, had thought to pull a chair close to the fire for him. 

“I find myself quite in the debt of Mr. Snape,” Ollivander declared. “I feared I would die in that forsaken place. I have been the captive of the Malfoys and He-who-must-not-be-named for many months now as they sought to overcome the bond between brother wands. May I trespass upon your hospitality for one night, and request a bed and a meal?”

“Of course, it goes without saying that you may stay as long as necessary. Professor McGonagall, would you be so kind as to show Mr. Ollivander to a guest suite and request that a house elf brings him whatever he wants?”

“Of course,” Professor McGonagall replied reluctantly, not really wanting to miss any of the events unfolding here. She had deliberately waited in the office long after the time she would usually retire, hoping for Severus’ return. She showed Ollivander out of the office. 

“Now then,” Dumbledore said, steepling his hands before him, making no effort to hide the withered blackness of his cursed hand, “Who would like to tell me what has happened here. Perhaps, Miss Potter?” Hermione and Ginny both stared openly at the wizard they hadn’t seen for months, unable to comprehend his deterioration.

Harriet didn’t want to. Her hand tightened in Severus’ robes. She wanted to flinch away from the touch of Flitwick’s hand steadying her foot as he worked on the cuff around her ankle, muttering spell after spell. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow, Albus?” Severus asked. “They are exhausted, in pain. Let them be healed and sleep.”

“I rather think now would be better,” Dumbledore insisted. “I must, after all, report to the order.”

Severus’ frown deepened. Hermione finally spoke. “We were kidnapped by Blaise Zabini,” she began. “We were talking at the edge of the forbidden forest when he dropped down on us from a tree, disarmed us and petrified us. Then he used a portkey to take us to an abandoned building somewhere, then again to Malfoy manor…”

Her voice hardly trembled as she recounted Lucius’ actions in breaking and burning their wands, what she knew of Harriet’s trip to see Voldemort, and, in very brief words, the visit they’d had from Zabini, Crabbe and Draco. She described it simply as ‘rape’, not elaborating on the humiliation or the use of unforgiveables. She was careful to exonerate Draco from any wrongdoing. They’d also had another, later, visit from Zabini and Crabbe- Draco turned green when he realised that their trials hadn’t ended when he left them. He’d wanted to help, to fetch somebody who could help, but somehow, he’d let them be hurt further in the meantime. He fixed his gaze on Ginny’s face, pale and pinched and frightened as she stared into the fire. She looked at him, sensing his perusal, but her cheeks pinkened, and she looked away quickly. At some point through the story, Flitwick finally succeeded in releasing the cuff from Harriet’s ankle. He squeaked in delight and moved on to the next one, taking only a few minutes this time. By the time Hermione came to the end of her story, Harriet was free, and he was removing the last of Ginny’s manacles. 

“... and that was when Severus came,” Hermione finished. “We were scared it was going to be Zabini again, or Lucius Malfoy or someone come to take us to the revel that was mentioned- we had no way of knowing the time there.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” Professor Dumbledore said. “Now, I think it best if you go to the hospital wing, and we shall see how you are in the morning.”

“No.”

“What is the matter, Severus?” Dumbledore asked with a sigh. 

“I don’t want them in the hospital wing,” Severus replied promptly. “I don’t want Harriet and Hermione out of my sight. They can recover in my quarters; Poppy and I will be quite able to care for them. After Miss Weasley had been healed of any injuries, perhaps she would prefer to return home to her parents for a time to recover. I’m sure Molly and Arthur must be beside themselves with worry.”

“Severus, I’m sure you see it’s quite impossible…” Albus began.

Ginny interrupted him. “No!” she snapped. “I’m going wherever Hermione and Harriet go. I need to know that they’re okay.”

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Albus said with forced jollity. “The hospital wing it is.”

“I have already told you,” Severus hissed. “I will not allow them to be away from me until I am quite certain that they are well and safe. Harriet is my godchild, you cannot keep me from her. Miss Granger is… important to me also.”

“I had rather wished to speak to you about your actions this evening, Severus,” Dumbledore said warningly.

Severus stood. “You may reprimand me tomorrow,” he said. “I am taking the girls and Draco to my quarters. Please inform Molly and Arthur that their daughter is safe.”

“Severus!” Dumbledore snapped, but Severus turned for the door, Harriet still cradled in his arms. 

“Come, Hermione, Ginny, Draco. Poppy, will you accompany us, please?” The matron acquiesced, standing to accompany them. She knew that Severus had his own reasons for wanting to keep Harriet in his quarters: it wouldn’t be easy to sneak Robin into the hospital wing if there were other patients.

Severus half turned back towards Dumbledore. “Oh, Albus, you should probably know. Bellatrix Lestrange is dead. She threatened our escape.” He turned sharply, and they formed an odd little crocodile down the spiral stairs to the corridor, leaving a gaping, shocked Albus, and Flitwick, left holding a pile of mangled, silvery cuffs. 

 


	56. In healer's hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a lot of lovely reviews on the last chapter- thank you all! Very little makes me happier than checking my emails in the morning and finding a review waiting for me! :)

As it was approaching two in the morning, there were no students to bother them in the corridors as they made their way from the head’s office to the dungeons. Mrs. Norris slunk from around a corner, watching them with accusatory eyes,  but Severus simply told her that the students were under his care, as if the cat would truly understand him. She turned tail and wandered away, apparently mollified. 

Hermione stumbled along, her muscles still weak and jellyish from the cruciatus curse. Draco watched her with concerned eyes for a few minutes before slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Lean on me if you need to,” he said gruffly, not quite able to believe he was helping Granger, of all people, and willingly at that. She smiled weakly in thanks. Ginny slipped her hand into Hermione’s free one, scared now that they were descending into the dungeons. She wished she’d asked to go home with her parents instead, but at least if she could see Hermione and Harriet, she’d know that they were okay now, and it assuage the guilt gnawing at her stomach, guilt that they were in such bad shape, and she had escaped with barely a scratch. It was all her fault anyway... 

Severus took them through the main entrance to his quarters, guarded by a rather fearsome dragon statue in an alcove. “Robin?” he called as soon as they were all into the warm living room. Harriet gasped, looking up at Severus in hope. “Yes, Harriet, he’s here,” Severus confirmed. “You didn’t truly think he would be anywhere else, did you?”

“Dad?” Robin asked, appearing from his room, his hair mussed from his constant tugging and worrying. “Harriet!” He bounded forward.

“Careful!” Severus snapped at his son. “She’s injured.” 

Robin stopped short of hugging her, stroking her cheek instead. Draco carefully decanted Hermione into a seat, her legs almost giving out. Severus looked between Harriet and Hermione, torn, wanting to help them both. Poppy finally made the decision for him. “Why don’t you put Harriet in young Robin’s room?” she suggested kindly. “I will look after her, and you can help Hermione. You have more experience than me with the aftereffects of the unforgivables.”

“Yes, that would be sensible,” he agreed with a brusque nod. “Draco, Ginny, make yourselves comfortable here. There is a bathroom on the right down the corridor. Call for the house elves if you want food or drink. Hermione, you know where my room is- can you manage?”

“Yes, Sir,” Hermione said tiredly, supporting herself on the wall as she went. 

Robin dashed ahead to smooth the covers on his bed. Severus laid Harriet down as gently as he could, relieved to be free of the weight of her. He rubbed at his upper arms fretfully. “You know where my stores are, Poppy,” he said. “Call for me if you need me.”

“Of course,” Poppy said briskly. “Not to worry, Severus. Robin and I will take good care of her.”

Severus ducked his head in acknowledgement. “Severus?” Harriet said softly, just before he left. He looked back. “Thank you.”

“There is no need for thanks,” he replied brusequely, and went to help Hermione. 

“Now then,” Madam Pomfrey said, all business. “Robin, how about you fetch something we can pop Harriet in so she can get out of that cloak? A nightshirt, or a t-shirt, or something?” Her fingers fussed at the cloak clasp as Robin pulled a plain black t-shirt out of a drawer. A simple enlarging charm lengthened it into a knee-length affair on Harriet, and the matron quickly popped it over her head, carefully not saying anything about the bruises and scrapes that peppered her body. They could be dealt with later. Robin sat beside her on the bed, taking her good hand in his. He couldn’t stop looking at her, so relieved she was here. Her eyes darted, not quite willing to meet his.

The mattress sunk as Madam Pomfrey perched on the other side. “Now, Harriet, how about you tell me everything that’s hurt?” she suggested.

“Erm… my ankle,” Harriet began, thinking that that much should have been obvious, given that it was twice it’s normal size. “And there’s something wrong with my collarbone, I think. It was broken, then Voldemort fixed it, but I think it’s broken again. And my arm, the left, just like the collarbone.“

Poppy leaned forward, cool fingers testing Harriet’s collarbone. She found the break and healed it, with none of the sharp stabbing agony of before, but a blessed relief of the pain that had been bothering her. “How about anything else, my dear?” she asked. “Are you injured underneath at all? Any pain in your privates?”

Harriet blushed, and shook her head. “Erm, no,” she lied. She ached, but she thought that was probably to be expected. She glanced nervously at Robin, not wanting him to know what had happened. Did he know? Would he think badly of her, think she was dirty, used? She didn’t want anyone else seeing her there, anyway. She’d had enough people looking at her over the last few days- the memory of Voldemort’s grey fingers on her was enough to constrict her throat, and Lucius had seen her, and Zabini had done far more… The second time, when it was just Zabini and Crabbe, they’d left her bleeding again. They came along with Lucius Malfoy who just watched, apparently impassive, though Harriet had seen him palm his cock through his robes, as she stared at the wall, her gaze dead. She, like Hermione, had tried to clean off as best they could on the edges of the blankets. Ginny, for reasons unknown to them, had remained untouched. 

It was the work of a moment for Madam Pomfrey to set the break in her arm, but she tutted over Harriet’s ankle. She turned to pull a vial of amethyst-tinted potion from her bag. “I don’t want to attempt to heal this without something to dull the pain,” she informed Harriet, uncorking the little bottle pouring a good dose into a spoon. Harriet drank it down without complaint, rather wishing she’d been given one earlier. 

Madam Pomfrey used her hands as well as her wand to carefully place Harriet’s ankle back together. It still hurt, despite the potion. Harriet gritted her teeth- she didn’t want to cry out, to be a coward or a wimp. Robin gripped her hands. “Squeeze, kitten,” he instructed quietly, and she did, clamping down on his hands until he hissed in pain too. Eventually, Madam Pomfrey declared the mangled break healed, though it would be swollen for a day or two. 

“Does anything else hurt?” she asked Harriet briskly. “Any more broken bones?”

“I don’t think so,” Harriet murmured with a shake of her head. 

The matron perched on the side of the bed again. She glanced at Robin, wondering if she should send him away, but Harriet still gripped his hand. The boy hadn’t even flinched when Harriet dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of his hands, although Poppy had seen the harrowed look on his face, seeing the evidence of what had happened to the girl… no. She couldn’t send him away. If they were going to stay together, they would have to take the bad together. “Harriet…” she began, “pensieve memories are good evidence, but physical evidence makes it easier to bring a man before the courts for rape. It is a crime, though you would have to find a man to bring the charges for you- perhaps Professor Snape, since Robin can’t- he has no status in the magical world, since he doesn’t own a wand. I can take some samples of the seminal fluid left inside you, and magical law enforcement can extrapolate a magical signature from it.”

Harriet was already shaking her head. “You’d have to touch me, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, child, I would. But it would be only for a moment.”

“No,” Harriet said. She didn’t want anyone touching her. She didn’t want Robin to see… see the sticky mess that there must still be between her legs. 

“Kitten,” Robin murmured, “you should…”

“No!” Harriet snapped again.

Poppy sighed. “Well, if you’re sure… if you change your mind before you bathe, let me know. Professor Snape would be able to do the same, if you prefer.” Harriet shook her head violently, pleased to be able to do so without pain again. Poppy patted her knee with a sorrowful sigh. “I’ll just do some standard diagnostics to make sure there’s no damage to any internal organs, then we’ll see about getting you some food and a bath,” she said. “It’ll just take a moment- you’ll see different lights and colours, nothing to worry about. Robin, you’ll have to move, or I’ll end up scanning you too.”

Robin moved, Harriet unclenching her fingers from around his. Madam Pomfrey cast the spell; so familiar to her that she didn’t need any incantation. The glow began at Harriet’s head, travelling down her body under the matron’s careful gaze. When they were finished, she gave a brisk nod. “Well… yes. I’ll just see about some food for you,” she said. 

“Poppy?” Robin asked with a frown. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course,” she said with an overbright smile. “Now, I must see how Miss Granger is getting on.” She fled from the room. 

Harriet gripped the covers of Robin’s bed tightly. Something was wrong. She felt sick, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up, so she just shivered as she swallowed down the nausea. Throwing up bile would be less than pleasant. Robin bent over her, stroking back her greasy hair. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he assured her softly before he, too, was gone. Alone, Harriet curled into herself, hugging her knees to her chest under Robin’s oversized t-shirt and ignoring the aches in her bones protesting the motion. The garment smelled like him. She liked it.

Madam Pomfrey knocked once, sharply, at Severus’ bedroom door. He looked up from his position, bent over Hermione. An enamel basin rested on his knee, and he used a soft cloth to gently clean her grubby, scraped face. A litter of potions bottles on the bedside table was testament to his care. “May I have a word, Severus?” Poppy asked primly. 

“Is Harriet okay?” Hermione asked, her voice small and trembling. “Can I see her?”

“Later,” Severus said softly. “Rest now.”. He set the basin of water and cloth aside, and followed Madam Pomfrey out into the corridor, where Robin waited impatiently. 

“What’s wrong with her?” he demanded. “Don’t say nothing, there’s something.”

Poppy looked at him, then set her mouth in a firm line. She supposed he had a right to know. “Miss Potter is pregnant,” she whispered. “It’s a week or less old, not even implanted yet. It may not take, but her magic has recognised it, and is nurturing it.”

“Have you told her?” Severus demanded roughly as Robin tried to form a coherent thought. Poppy shook her head. 

“Fuck,” Robin said softly. “So… it could be mine, or it could be…”

Severus reached out to squeeze his son’s shoulder. “We will deal with this, Robin,” he said firmly, his look clear: it said ‘there is no use fretting’. “Poppy, now might be a good time for you to examine Miss Weasley. I will see to Harriet.”

He strode down the corridor and pushed the door to Robin’s room open. “Oh, Harriet,” he breathed, seeing her curled up on her side into the smallest foetal position she could manage. Her toes poked out of the bottom of the stretched black cotton of what appeared to be one of Robin’s t-shirts. He settled on the edge of the bed next to her, one long-fingered hand running up and down her back. “You’re safe now,” he told her softly. “You may have nightmares for years to come, but you are safe now. And I think that, in time, you will need to talk about it, and you will tell us everything, and it will make it hurt less, but for now, I have a very important question for you. Can you answer me?”

With an undignified sniff, she nodded, a tiny movement since her head was tucked so close to her chest. Severus simply continued the soothing motion of rubbing her back. “When did you last take your contraceptive potion, Harriet?” Severus asked.

That question was unexpected enough to shock her into thought. “Erm, just over a week ago, I think...” she said, her voice small. It rang strangely in her ears, like it didn’t quite belong to her. “I always take it on a Sunday, and it wasn’t last Sunday… Why?”

In the doorway, Robin had his hands so tightly clenched that his fingernails dug into his palms, leaving reddened half-crescents. Severus tried to keep his voice level and calm. “We think it’s possible that you may be pregnant,” he said. It was enough to make her snap back into her foetal position, like a hedgehog threatened. Severus continued, undeterred. “It’s very important that we sort this out, Harriet,” he informed her softly. “Can you remember where and when you got the contraceptive?”

“Just before I took it, from the hospital wing,” Harriet replied, her voice muffled. 

“Was it a single dose, or one of the bigger bottles?” Severus pressed.

“A big one,” she snuffled.

He looked up. “Robin, do you know where she keeps her potions?” he asked. 

“Yeah. In her wardrobe.”

“It will be in a half-pint bottle. Could you bring it, please?”

Robin nodded brusquely and went, passing Madam Pomfrey performing the same diagnostic charms on Ginny as she’d used on Harriet. He didn’t reply to her enquiry as to his destination, but stepped quickly into the floo. It was the work of a moment to locate the contraceptive potion: if nothing else, it was labelled. He took it back to his father, this time with Poppy following in his wake. 

Severus accepted it with thanks, uncorking it and sniffing. His long nose twitched. Reaching for the spoon they’d used to does Harriet with painkillers, he spelled it clean and poured a spoonful. Carefully, he dipped his tongue into the mixture. 

“This is sugared water,” he declared eventually. “Coloured blue to look like the potion. Poppy, she said this came from your storecupboard two Sundays ago. You will need to check your stock, and see if any other girls may have taken this… beverage.” Poppy’s eyes were wide, a hand covering her mouth in shock.

“Wouldn’t Harriet have known the difference?” Robin asked, feeling bad for talking about her like she wasn’t there, but he correctly guessed that she was in no position to reply to questions. She’d probably even see it as a criticism.

Severus shook his head brusquely. “This potion is one of the few that can be sweetened. It is the reason Poppy favours it above others- it is easier to persuade the girls to take it. This tastes almost exactly like the potion in question. It is the viscosity that is slightly different, but that is a minor thing. I can understand how it went unnoticed.” He looked down at Harriet. She was truly unlucky to become pregnant so quickly: in general, fertility rates amongst witches were lower than in muggles, as both their body and their magic had to accept the pregnancy. “A calming draught, I think,” he said, with a pointed look at Robin. Robin left, destined for Severus’ private workroom, and his potions stores. Severus fixed Poppy in his gaze. “Please do let me know how much of your stock has been replaced, Poppy,” he intoned. 

She knew a dismissal when she saw one. “I have no idea how this happened, Severus,” she said. “A cruel prank, perhaps…”

“Perhaps,” he replied darkly before she left. 

Robin and Severus tried between them to coax Harriet to take the calming potion, but rather than needing calming, she just seemed to have shut down completely. She stared into space, her arms wrapped tight around her legs. Eventually Severus used sheer bodily force to drag her upright, prompting a gasp. He grasped her chin firmly pulling her mouth open and plugging it with the neck of the potion phial. She swallowed to keep from choking. “You need to make a choice, Harriet,” he said roughly, tired and beyond kind words. “Madam Pomfrey detected this very early- she thinks it has happened within the last week, which fits with when you took your contraceptive. If you engaged in intercourse with Robin in the last week, there is a chance that the child could be his. Equally, it could belong to Zabini- there is no way to accurately predict the time at which the fertilisation took place. It could have been hours ago, or days.”

“It could by Crabbe too,” she said, her voice small. She would rather not think about the heavy club of Crabbe’s splitting her open. “What do I do?” she asked softly. 

“That is your choice. I have a post-coital contraceptive in my stores that is effective for a lunar month following fertilisation,” Severus replied. “Equally, you could decide to continue and see what happens. We should know within the next week or two if the pregnancy has implanted, or passed from your body.”

Harriet stayed silent as the seconds ticked by. Robin could see the impatience growing in his father’s eyes. He didn’t want Severus to shout at Harriet and scare her more. He knelt by the side of the bed. “What d’you want to do, kitten?” he asked hoarsely. She looked at him with big eyes, made greener by the reddened sclera. He had been an unwanted pregnancy, she mused. But how could she live with Blaise Zabini’s child inside her, or worse, Crabbe’s? She wasn’t ready for any child- she was still at school! But she certainly wasn’t up to carrying Blaise’s child.

“Potion,” she said wearily. “I’m sorry, Robin.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied softly, stroking her hair. “Why would you be sorry?”

Severus stood with a huff of relief and went to fetch the potion. 

“Because it might be your baby,” she whispered with a sniff. 

“Kitten,” he murmured with a sigh, “You’re seventeen. You’re too young to have to be thinking about this. It doesn’t matter whose baby it is. I just need you to be okay.”

She didn’t think she could be described as ‘okay’. She felt dirty, inside and out. She didn’t feel like she was worthy of the cuddle that Robin pulled her into. Severus came back with a large bottle of murky green potion. He sat on the side of the bed again, relieved that Harriet was at least capable of looking at him, the calming draught having cleared her head enough for at least that. “I cannot lie, Harriet, this will not be pleasant,” he informed her gravely. “I suggest that you take this potion, and then have a wash and something to eat. I’ll give you some dreamless sleep to get you through the first few hours, but you’ll probably have some pain for a few days.”

Harriet nodded and reached for the potion. He pulled it out of her reach. “Has Madam Pomfrey taken samples of any bodily fluid left by your attackers?” he asked. 

Harriet shook her head. “Harriet said she didn’t want it,” Robin explained.

Severus gave a long suffering sigh. “I am not willing to put up with maidenly shyness, Harriet,” he said. “Did you at least allow Poppy to check your genitalia for injury?”

“I don’t want anyone looking at me!” Harriet burst out. “I don’t want anyone seeing!”

“We have discussed this before, child,” Severus replied. “I have seen you unclothed before. I am not some oversexed teenaged boy, wanting to gain access to your knickers. I am a physician, and you need care. I am going to fetch the supplies that I need, and then you are going to let me examine you.”

Harriet started crying, tears dripping silently down her cheeks. Robin shot Severus a furious glare, gathering Harriet’s shoulders against him. She pulled away, leaving a very surprised Robin. Severus thought he could guess the problem: it was a sentiment that Hermione had already voiced. They felt dirty, and unworthy of love. “Harriet, child, you will feel much better after a bath,” Severus said, forcing some gentleness into his voice. “I am going to examine you, and Robin will either go or stay by your head so he cannot see, whichever you would prefer. Then, you are going to have a hot bath, some soup, and you are going to go to bed with a dose of dreamless sleep. I will take no nonsense or churlishness from you about this.”

With a hiccough, Harriet gave a tiny nod. 

Severus was as quick as he could be, gathering up clean sample vials for human tissue and the same healing potion he’d used on Harriet months ago, when she’d made such a mess of herself. He hoped he didn’t have to use it, but better to be prepared. He collected a blanket that was slung over the back of Robin’s desk chair before setting everything out on the foot of the bed. He spelled his hands clean, the flesh pinkening slightly. It was the third time he’d performed the same charm in the last half hour, since he’d performed the same examination on Hermione. “Harriet, will Robin stay or go?” he asked, arranging the blanket over her. 

“I don’t care,” Harriet said emptily. Severus flickered his eyes to his son’s face. Robin was chewing on his lip. 

“He can stay and hold your hand then,” Severus decided for her. “Now, you must tell me if I cause you any pain. I need you to pull your feet up as far as you can to your buttocks, and open your knees as much as you can.” The words he’d been taught so many years before as he trained as a mediwizard came back easily. Slowly, Harriet complied, her knees tenting the blanket. He folded it back so he could see what he was doing, but everything was hidden from Harriet and Robin. A strangled sob escaped from Harriet. Her hands fretted at the edge of the blanket, and her legs were tense, all her muscles pulled taut. Severus looked down, lighting his wand and setting it to the side of her knee so it illuminated his field. He performed a swift visual examination, noting with some relief that, whilst irritated and abraded, everything seemed present and correct. Death Eaters were not above mutilation as torture. He kept his face carefully impassive as he used a long swab to take what he needed from her swollen flesh, gentle fingers spreading her apart so he could insert the second swab deep. Both came up smeared partly with her blood, but also a good dollop of thick white semen. He dropped them into the preserving potion and recorked the vials. “Just another moment, Harriet,” he promised as he poured a little of the healing potion into his hand, using it as a makeshift lubricant so he could check for any major injuries. She whimpered and flinched away when he inserted a finger as gently as he could. He apologised. A moment later, he pulled the blanket down again, spelling his hands clean for the fourth time. This spell was really too abrasive to be used so frequently, but he didn’t want to run the risk of introducing any bacteria with the girls in such a state. “All done,” he said, pouring a dose of the post-coital contraceptive into a small beaker. “Drink this whilst I set the bath running.”

All the fight seemed to have left Harriet. She didn’t even complain when Severus lifted her from the bed again to deposit her into the bath. Robin watched her carefully as she cleaned herself in the hot water, doctored with healing potions. He was under strict instructions from Severus not to touch her unless she asked for help or she was at risk of drowning, though he wanted to help her, love her and look after her. She scrubbed as hard as she could at her skin with the soapy flannel. She drank her thin soup without complaint, followed by a large dose of dreamless sleep, and she curled up beneath the heavy blankets of Robin’s bed. 

The oblivion was welcome. 


	57. Midnight fears

“Has she stirred?” Severus asked wearily as he entered the room almost an hour later. Robin didn’t look away from Harriet as he shook his head. Severus laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Come away for a few minutes,” he suggested. “She should sleep for hours yet. You need to eat something.”

Robin finally looked up, a plaintive, frightened look in his eyes. “How can anyone ever get over what happened to her?” he asked quietly. “How could I ever help her through it? I’m not strong enough. I don’t know what I should do, what I could say. She’d be better off without me. She needs someone who knows what to do. Someone she’s not frightened of.”

Severus sat heavily on the bed next to Robin, awkwardly taking his son’s hand in his, something he hadn’t done in many years. “I have discovered over the last few days that my view of your relationship with Harriet was erroneous,” he admitted. “You care about each other, I dare say you even love each other. She needs support from you more than she ever has before, Robin,” he said after a pause. “She is a strong girl, a strong person- her sex doesn’t have any impact on her resilience. She has seen terrible things, and she will recover. She will be changed, as we are all changed by our experiences, but she must know that she is loved and cherished, and that what has happened is the action of a cruel individual, and not of men. If you leave her, you will be the man who turned his back. when she needed you.” He fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief, pressing it into Robin’s hand. “Everything seems impossible at the moment, because Harriet is hurt and frightened, and you are angry, and it is night-time. When she is awake, and able to move and smile and it is daylight, these will seem ridiculous thoughts.”

Robin nodded, mopping up the tears that were falling, and scrubbing at his eyes and nose with the handkerchief. “I try to be strong for her,” he admitted quietly. “I pretend that I know what I’m doing all the time, but half the time… I just don’t.”

“Everyone feels that way from time to time, Robin,” Severus confided. “We all must pretend that we know what we are doing. Wallowing, however, will not help. Come and eat; the house elves have brought food.”

Robin nodded, defeated and knowing that Severus was right- Harriet had had a large dose of dreamless sleep; she’d be near-comatose for hours yet. Gently, he stroked back a strand of hair that was clinging damply to her face, and followed Severus out of the room.

Draco and Ginny were both in the living room, tucked sleepily beneath blankets on the sofa. Severus summoned one of Robin’s giant cushions to put by the fireside. Robin filled a mug with tea from the steaming pot, took a bacon sandwich from under a warming charm, and retreated to the cushion, eyeing the two students warily. 

Severus sank into his own chair with a groan. He may not yet be forty, but at times he felt eighty, and this was certainly one of those times. Taking a good swallow of dreamless sleep himself and going to bed sounded an excellent idea, but he needed to stay awake to keep an eye on the girls, and he had lessons to teach in a few hours.

“How’s Harriet?” Ginny asked eventually, directing her question at no one in particular. 

“Asleep,” Severus replied. “I hope that rest will be the best medicine for both Harriet and Hermione. You should rest too, Miss Weasley. Will you take some dreamless sleep, in case of nightmares?”

Ginny shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she insisted. “I want to know if anything happens.”

“Nothing will happen,” Severus assured her. “They are in no danger; their injuries are healing. It is the emotional scars that they will bear the longest, and you will share that burden.”

“It wasn’t as bad for me,” Ginny replied softly. She dropped her head against her knees to stifle a cry. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. Draco frowned, then, very cautiously, put a thin arm around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away, and he looked almost surprised, though whether by his action or her lack of reaction, even he was not completely sure.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Weasley. The blame lies firmly at the feet of Blaise Zabini, Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord.”

“But if I hadn’t been so stupid, so stubborn, then Hermione never would have tried to get me and Harriet to make friends again, she wouldn’t have had our wands, and we could have done something, defended ourselves… we wouldn’t even have been there.”

“He’d have found a way,” Robin said before Severus could. “It sounds like the boy’s a madman- he’d do anything to get his own back. He’d have taken Harriet, sometime, somehow. You just had the poor luck to be in the way.”

She looked up enough to glare at him. “What do you know?” she sniffled. “You don’t get it. You’re just a muggle.” She’d had to ask Draco who Robin was, and she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around it.

“Miss Weasley!” Severus snapped. “I will make allowance for the trauma you have undergone, but you will treat my son with respect and politeness in his own home, or I shall have to have you removed to the hospital wing.” Robin dipped his head down, staring at his half eaten sandwich. The heat at the back of his eyes threatened tears again, and he did not wish to cry like this, before two strangers. He shredded a piece of bread, not able to bring himself to eat.

“I don’t get it,” Draco said, his arm still around Ginny, who’d been stunned to silence by Severus’ outburst. “I don’t get how a wizard as powerful as you could have a squib child, and still you say that breeding with muggles is a good thing? That you’re, you’re  _ consorting _ with Granger, when you’ve seen what muggle blood does to magic.” It was obvious to Draco, at least, that Severus had some deeper reason for caring for Hermione, and it didn’t take much to work it out. Severus didn’t even bother to deny it.

“None of us yet understand quite how magic is inherited, Draco,” Severus said harshly. “Robin is my son, whether he is a squib or a powerful wizard. He does have magic, as he’s quite firmly demonstrated by setting fire to my sofa. He just lacks the capacity to learn it.”

“I’m going back to Harriet,” Robin said, cutting across his father. “I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this.” He gently set his plate on the table and rose stiffly, leaving the cushion. It would probably transfigure into a decent bed if Ginny or Draco wanted to rest.

“Robin…” Severus said with a sigh, but Robin just shook his head, not stopping. He couldn’t stop and let them see him about to cry. 

His room was quiet, the heavy door shutting out any voices from the main room. He laid full length on his bed, next to Harriet, listening to the slow rise and fall of her breathing. When he brushed her cheek, she snuggled towards his hand even in her deep sleep. He smiled weakly. “I can’t be without you, kitten,” he muttered though she couldn’t hear him. “Why do you affect me so much? The idea of life without you is intolerable.”

Of course, she didn’t reply. Robin stripped off his jeans and slipped beneath the covers, too scared of hurting her to move her into her normal position, snuggling into his shoulder. 

He hadn’t intended on sleeping. He hadn’t thought he could sleep, not tonight, but he was woken, blinking into the light from a half-opened curtain, to Severus leaning over the bed, checking on Harriet. “How is she?” he croaked sleepily. 

“She’s doing well. The dreamless sleep should wear off soon. Hermione is awake, but she had a slightly smaller dose.” Severus picked up a mug of tea he’d put on the bedside table and carefully passed it over to Robin. 

As he sat up to receive it, he realised the sheets, and his thigh, were sticky. He glanced beneath the covers. “She’s bleeding,” he informed his father. 

Severus peeled back the blankets to show the pool of deep red spreading over the sheet. Harriet mumbled a little and tried to curl up away from the cold air. Robin swallowed an almost painful lump in his throat: she’d gravitated towards him. Maybe it was just his body heat she was searching for, but he preferred to think that she wanted to be close to him.

A flick of Severus’ wand cleared up the blood. A moment later, he’d summoned a towel, lifting Harriet’s hips as gently as he could to slide it beneath her. “There is no need to worry,” he assured Robin, who was chewing at his lip. “It is merely the effects of the post-coital contraceptive. This is a good sign- it means it’s working.”

“Will she be in much pain?” Robin asked.

“It’s not a pleasant experience, by all accounts,” Severus replied, tucking the spell-cleaned blanket back around Harriet. “but it’s different for each woman. Let us hope it’s easy for Harriet.”

“She deserves something easy,” Robin replied dryly, staring into his half cup of tea. “Dad… how bad was it?”

Severus rested against the post of the bed. The wooden birds were starting to come to life for the day; his eyes tracked a little brown sparrow. He remembered Robin bent over them, meticulously comparing colours to the birdwatching guide as he painted. No crimson crows for Robin: he’d wanted something realistic. It wasn’t some particular interest in birds, it was just Robin. Perhaps a child psychologist might have declared it some reaction to the fantastical world into which he was thrust, but Severus thought that it was probably just Robin. He was straightforward, with no ambiguity. He’d always been very clear on the distinction between fantasy and reality, even if that reality was a magical one.

He owed the truth to Robin, he thought. “It could have been much worse,” he admitted. “Had they been taken even two months ago, Harriet would be dead by now. The Dark Lord was given… that is, I passed on the Dark Lord a false prophecy. A prophecy was made some months before Harriet’s birth suggesting that she could kill the Dark Lord. He heard the contents of only part of it. The altered version which I pretended to have discovered instead suggested that he should attempt to work alongside her to increase his power. Unfortunately, the Dark Lord seems to have instead surmised from it that he should impregnate her. It almost undoubtedly saved their lives. I will not lie and say they were treated well, however. I gather they were given as something of a prize to Zabini in reward for his services, as sexual playthings. They used the cruciatus curse on Hermione multiple times.”

Robin gasped, paler than usual as he blanched at the thought. “Fortunately, Harriet seems to have escaped with nothing but a few broken bones. Ginny was spared the indignity of rape by Draco, who tried to protect her by simulating the act, and forbidding the others to touch her.” Severus ran his hand through his hair wearily: his first class of the day was over, and he had until after lunch free. He should have been marking his seventh year’s essays: he hadn’t been able to face seeing Harriet and Hermione’s work when they were missing. “Some good did come of this, though: the best wandmaker in Britain has been missing for months. We discovered him in the Malfoy cellars.”

“Alive?” Robin asked.

“Alive, and surprisingly well, at least at first glance.” Severus nodded towards Harriet. “She’s waking up.”

Harriet had thrown one hand up over her eyes to try to block out the light from the enchanted window. “Harriet?” Robin asked softly.

She grumbled indistinctly. “Give her a minute,” Severus said with a small smile. “I’ll fetch her some tea.”

Harriet took stock. She felt warm, and she was on something soft. That sounded like Severus… was it a dream, or was she really back at Hogwarts? She cracked her eyes open. “Hey, kitten,” Robin said softly. 

“Hey,” she breathed. She hurt too much for this to be a dream. Even though her bones were healed, the bone-deep ache of spending two days on the cold stone floor was still there, along with too many little bruises and scrapes to count.

“Dad’s gone to get you some tea,” he told her. “Are you… are you comfortable?” He had been going to ask if she was okay, but that seemed silly, in the circumstances. Of course she wasn’t okay.

“I feel better than I did yesterday,” she tried to joke.

Severus returned with another mug of tea. “Good morning, Harriet,” he said solicitously. “Would you like a drink?”

“Please,” she replied, trying to lever herself into a sitting position. She yelped as she put weight on her still-sore left arm, and Robin wrapped an arm beneath her shoulders, helping her up. Severus thrust a pillow behind her, then handed her the tea when she was settled. She sipped appreciatively. 

“Are you hungry?” Severus asked. “Perhaps a little porridge?” In the grander scheme of things, a couple days without food was not so terrible, but he didn’t want to tax Harriet’s empty stomach when she had taken so many potions. Bland was better. 

“Ravenous, actually,” she said. “Will there be blueberries on the porridge?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “As if you believe I could deny you anything at the moment,” he replied sardonically. “Harriet, you will find that you are bleeding. It is nothing to fret about, simply the post-coital contraceptive clearing everything from your uterus. You may experience cramping. I will leave you with a potion to deaden the pain and relax your muscles.”

Harriet looked away, focusing on the birds. Severus stroked a hand over her hair. “It is nothing to feel shame about, Harriet,” he told her, mustering up all the gentleness he could in his voice. “This was not your choice, not your fault. Let us take care of you.” He didn’t wait for her response, leaving to fetch her some breakfast

She blew across the surface of her tea, leaving little ripples. “D’you want to talk about it?” Robin asked quietly. 

“Not really. It wasn’t very nice.” She still didn’t look at him. “Look, Robin… you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be with me. I’d get it if, you know you just wanted to forget it.”

“Is that what you want?” Robin asked around a lump in his throat. Harriet shrugged. “Because if you really, truly want it, Harriet, I’ll leave you alone. I can see how you’d rather have someone who understands you more, who is powerful enough for you, like Draco, but I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

Harriet pulled the bedcovers up to soak up the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing from her eyes. “You don’t want me,” she told him, her voice muffled. “You don’t want someone broken.”

His heart twisted in his chest to see her so upset. “You’re not broken, kitten,” he murmured. “Someone hurt you, but you’re as whole and wonderful as you have always been.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she stiffened against his touch. She didn’t pull away, but she couldn’t make it much clearer that she didn’t want him touching her. He withdrew his arm sadly. 

A tentative knock sounded at the door. “Come in?” Robin said, not sure if he’d even heard the knock or imagined it, and wondering who’d be knocking anyway. Severus always just came in if he wanted to- he wasn’t big on privacy for children, and the habit had stuck. 

Ginny peeked around the door. “I… erm… the Headmaster’s here. He wants to see Harriet.”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Robin replied.

“He didn’t say anything about you. Just Harriet.”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Robin repeated warningly. Quite a large part of him just wanted to give in. Go back to Manchester. Carry on with his life, and wait for someone else to put Harriet back together again. But what was it that his father had said? He didn’t want to be ‘the man who turned his back’.  he was going to be there until Harriet told him to go: actually told him, not suggest that he wouldn’t want to be there. He swung his legs out of bed with a groan, reaching for his jeans. “Here, love,” he said, unhooking his dressing gown from the back of his door and tossing it over to her. “Put this on.”

“Robin,” she said, looking stricken. “I can’t.”

“It’ll be over soon, kitten. Come on, it’s okay.”

“No, I can’t… I’m bleeding, and it’s bad. I can feel it coming out,” she said, looking down at her lap in mortification.

Robin wanted nothing so much as to climb straight back into bed and hold her. She looked so dejected, so uncertain. It wasn’t the sweet shyness he’d seen when they first started sleeping together, it was as if she thought she was about to be shouted at, beaten, hurt. “Could you transfigure a towel into some thick knickers or something to catch it?” he suggested gently. 

“I don’t have a wand anymore,” she whispered. Some witch she was, she thought. She didn’t even have a wand, and she felt so…  _ bereft _ . She had never realised how much she’d grown to use it: it wasn’t just for lessons, for self defence. It was for little things too: summoning shampoo, filling the kettle, transfiguring clothing.

“What happened, kitten?” he asked softly, perching beside her and using his thumb to wipe away the tear just about to crest her cheek. “Did you lose it?”

Harriet shook her head. “Malfoy burnt it,” she forced out.

“Draco burnt your wand?” he burst out, furious, already standing to search out the blonde, preferably to wrap his hands around Draco’s neck. He knew what a wand meant: it was everything he didn’t have.

Harriet snatched at his wrist, her grip not as tight as it should have been. “Not Draco. His dad,” she explained. 

Robin frowned. “That’s barbaric,” he complained, fury still clouding his brain and making his hands clench into tight fists. “Look, stay here. I’ll sort it.” Harriet nodded dejectedly. Robin tried not to show pity in his expression. He pulled open his door and slipped into the corridor beyond. 

He could already hear raised voices. “And when would the Order have acted?” Severus snapped. “Another day, and Harriet would have been bound to the Dark Lord, her life force linked to his. Do not tell me I made a poor choice, Albus.”

“Dad?” Robin asked softly. “I need you for a minute.”

The owner of the waterfall of white hair turned to look at him. Robin gulped. He hadn’t seen Dumbledore in about three years, and the change was terrible to behold. “Robin, what a surprise. I had thought you would be at home.” His tone was accusatory.

“No, I’m here. Dad, a moment?” he repeated. “Harriet needs something.”

Severus nodded and stood, but Dumbledore held up a hand; the skin pulled tight over bones and veins and mottled with age spots. “Perhaps Miss Potter could come here?”

“She needs some help,” Robin repeated stubbornly.

“I can go,” Ginny said, standing. 

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Weasley,” Severus said smoothly. “Albus, you can wait five minutes to continue your reprimand whilst I tend to my  _ goddaughter _ .” Severus’ voice left no room for dispute, and Albus sank back into his chair.

“We all have our duties, I suppose” he intoned. Severus said nothing, crossing the room to Robin. He placed a hand on Robin’s shoulder to give him a gentle shove back down the corridor, breaking Robin’s open fascination with the change in Dumbledore. 

“What’s the matter?” he murmured a the door. 

“They burnt her wand, Dad,” he said, his whisper anguished.

“I know,” Severus replied. “She will have a new once as soon as she is well enough to select one,” he promised. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?” he asked. 

Robin shook his head and pushed open the door. “Harriet’s bleeding too much to move without embarrassing herself,” he explained. 

Severus sighed. “Of course,” he said, slipping into the room. “I apologise, Harriet, I should have anticipated that. May I look?”

“Suppose so,” Harriet said, her voice small. Severus pulled a vial of the potion he had promised her from his pocket first, offering it to her before he pulled the blankets back.

There was a spreading patch of blood beneath her again, and smeared against her pale thighs. Severus lightly touched her thigh. She shivered, but reluctantly spread her legs a little. He reached to the bedside table, where a few of the cloths he’d used to clean her up the night before still lay, folded and clean. He doubled one over to fashion a thick pad and slipped it between her legs, using the same charm he’d use to adhere a bandage to skin to hold it in place. “Can you walk, do you think, or shall I carry you through?” he asked solicitously. 

“I can walk,” Harriet replied stubbornly. There was no way she wanted everyone seeing her carried about like some kind of invalid!

Admittedly, it felt more like a waddle with the thick padding between her legs, but she wrapped herself in Robin’s dressing gown. Severus gave a little frown. “We should have fetched some of your own clothes, you would feel more yourself. As soon as this lecture from the headmaster draws to a close, we will see to it.”

“Can’t I just go back to my own room?” Harriet asked. “I just want to go back to normal.”

Severus shook his head. “I want you where I can see you for at least one more night, Harriet,” he said, opening the door for you. “Come, you can eat whilst Albus lectures me before as many people as he can find to fit into my living room.” 

  
  



	58. The gathering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really interested in people's response to my portrayal of Dumbledore. I'm afraid he doesn't get any kinder in this chapter: I figure he's dying, he knows he's dying, and he's getting desperate. He has nothing left to lose...  
> Please continue with the lovely reviews!

Harriet’s progress down the corridor to Severus’ living room and the gathering there was infuriatingly ponderous. How was she ever going to get back on a broom, she wondered? She’d had broken bones before, so she knew how it felt, but right now, she just ached all over. She felt broken all over.

She stopped short when she saw how crammed Severus’ living room was. She could see now why he had deep frown lines etched into his face. She’d thought Christmas Eve was crowded; she was wrong. 

Mrs. Weasley looked up, and seeing Harriet, shot up from her seat and raced across the little room, dodging knees with surprising agility. “Harriet, dear,” she exclaimed before squashing a suddenly shaking Harriet to her breast.

“Molly,” Severus snapped. “Harriet does not wish to be suffocated.”

“She needs a mother’s touch, Severus!” Molly retorted, holding Harriet even tighter. 

“Molly, dearest, let her breathe.” Arthur’s voice was low and firm as he peeled his distraught wife away from Harriet. Still shocked, Harriet looked around.

Dumbledore occupied Severus’ normal seat. A knobbly walking stick leaned against the arm of the chair, and Professor McGonagall sat on a straight-backed dining chair to his right. Ginny had her knees tucked beneath her chin on one of Robin’s cushions between two dining chairs, which her parents were probably supposed to be occupying; Draco and Hermione were settled on the sofa whilst Madam Pomfrey hovered behind them; and Professor Lupin leaned against the mantelpiece. To her great confusion, Kingsley was also there, a cup of tea in hand. “I’m going back to bed,” Harriet said.

Dumbledore's eyes were already on her. “Come now, my dear girl, this will not take long, and then you may rest again. Perhaps Mr. Malfoy would be so kind as to offer a lady his seat?”

“Oh, of course,” Draco said, leaping up. Severus placed his hand gently in the small of Harriet’s back to guide her forwards as Molly still fretted to her side. She sat stiffly beside Hermione, aware that she was in front of so many people wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a dressing gown, and that everyone here probably knew that not so very long ago, she’d had her legs spread for Blaise Zabini and Vincent Crabbe. 

Dumbledore gave her an encouraging smile. She didn’t smile back. “Now then,” Dumbledore said. “I thought we might all find a bit of a debrief useful, so we all have our story straight.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Headmaster,” Kingsley rumbled, “but I’m afraid I don’t know who this young man is.” He indicated Robin, and Mr Weasley nodded in agreement, chiming in that he had also been wondering.

“He is Professor Snape’s son,” Dumbledore explained tiredly, prompting a few gasps and shocked looks. “I will admit, I fail to see why he is present.”

“I’m… Robin began hotly, but Severus cut him off.

“My son is here as an assistant to me,” he explained shortly. “He is also here as a comfort to Harriet, as they have a close acquaintance, and as this debacle of a meeting remains my quarters, here he will stay.”

Dumbledore looked slightly taken aback, but did not argue. “Very well. As I said, i think it important that everyone here has the same story. As we all know, Harriet Potter, Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley were all taken from school grounds by portkey, purportedly by Blaise Zabini on Monday afternoon…

“Purportedly?” Hermione burst out. “There is no speculation on that fact, Headmaster! I know Zabini when I see him!”

“Yes, of course, Miss Granger,” the Headmaster replied with a smile. “We must just consider all options; I’m sure you understand.”

Harriet was glowering at her lap, hoping that if she stayed quiet, everyone would forget she was there. Severus had to touch her arm to her her attention to hand her a small bowl of porridge with a handful of blueberries scattered across it, topped up with cream and brown sugar. She shoved a spoonful into her mouth. Lupin tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t even notice. Dumbledore continued. “The three girls were held in the cellars at Malfoy manor, as confirmed by Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape. They were subsequently rescued by Draco and Professor Snape, and returned to Hogwarts. I’m pleased to see that they do not seem to be returned to us the worse for wear.”

Poppy snorted. “Forgive me Albus, but that is patently untrue.”

Dumbledore looked over the top of his glasses. “Do enlighten us, if you please, Madam Pomfrey?” he asked mildly. “They look fine to me.”

She looked around her, aghast. “I hardly think that this is the place!” she blustered. “I cannot share their personal medical information with so many people.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I assure you, Madam, that everyone here has the best interests of these girls at heart, and we must take the burden of caring for them…”

Severus cut across him. Harriet glanced up, realising he was stood just behind the sofa, his hand on Hermione’s shoulder, then stared into her bowl again. If she looked at her bowl, she didn’t need to look at the pitying glances. Severus’ tone was businesslike, brisk, and had a sharp, annoyed edge to it. “Miss Weasley was healed of a few bruises by Madam Pomfrey. Standard diagnostic charms revealed no internal injury. She refused sleeping potions but was able to sleep peacefully for just over three hours. She is eating and drinking as normal. 

“Miss Granger was subjected to three incidences of the cruciatus curse, at least one  held for a protracted time in excess of one minute. There is some muscular damage and sensitivity which should heal with potions and rest over the course of the next few days. She had three cracked ribs on her left side, and a number of abrasions to the skin. There is some tearing to her perineal region owing to forced penetration. She has slept under the influence of dreamless sleep.

“Miss Potter suffered simple fractures to the left collarbone and left ulna, in addition to a complex break of the left ankle, all healed by Madam Pomfrey. There is bruising all down her left hand side.She has some abrasion to her genital region, but no actual injury. She has also had dreamless sleep.”

Severus fell silent, and Harriet glanced up at the surrounding people. Professor McGonagall clutched a sensible white handkerchief to her chest, looking quite like she might cry. Professor Lupin’s knuckles were white. Mrs Weasley had gasped in a most annoying fashion throughout Severus’s recitation, and her cheeks were stained a deep pink. Harriet would probably have been blushing too, but it just didn’t seem so embarrassing anymore, and Severus had described it in such a clinical way that it didn’t really feel like he was talking about her. She was just pleased that he hadn’t mentioned her contraceptive failure...  A hand stroked over her hair and she snapped her head round to see who it was. “Sorry,” Robin mouthed, holding his hands up in contrition. She felt a twist of guilt writhe through her: he was trying to be nice. She knew he was only trying to be nice, but the soft touch had just felt like Voldemort’s cold, dry hand, and she’d suddenly not been in Severus’ warm, crowded living room, but back in the study at Malfoy Manor, standing shivering before the desk, shoved back on the desk… she shook her head to clear the image.

Even Dumbledore looked a bit pink above the beard. “Well, yes, thank you, Severus. I should imagine that in a few days they’ll be right as rain, though. A bit of trauma, yes, but they’ll all bounce back quite nicely.” Harriet clenched her fingers into tight fists. Did he really believe that? Would she just forget about it, go on as if the last hellish two days had never happened? Would Hermione, who’d been subjected to unforgiveables? She didn’t see how they could. Even Ginny, who by all accounts had escaped with the lightest burdens, would still remember the abject helplessness of being in the cell, chained and terrified and wandless, for the rest of her life. Harriet wondered if Dumbledore had any such experience, but she lacked the energy to challenge him. He continued. “My largest concern is what we will tell the other students so as not to cause a panic.”

“Well,” Harriet snapped, getting fed up of everyone, “What do they know already?”

“Very little,” Lupin commented quietly. “Ron, of course, is aware that you were missing, as he raised the alarm, and he was told this morning that you are safe and back, and that he may see you later if you feel up to it. Other students have simply been told that you are away for personal reasons if they asked.”

“Well, then we’ll just say we sorted out personal problems,” Harriet snapped. “Can I please leave now?”

A high pitched whine filled the room. Madam Pomfrey pulled out her wand, which seemed to be emitting the strange noise. “Oh dear,” she said with a frown. “Someone’s in the hospital wing. I’ll call in later, if that’s alright, Severus?”

“Oh, feel free,” Severus said sarcastically. “Everyone else has moved in anyway.”

“Please do forgive us for trespassing on your hospitality, Severus. As you know, I would have been more than happy to hold this meeting in my office,” Dumbledore replied tiredly. “As I recall, it was you who refused to move Harriet and Hermione through the castle again.”

“And as I insisted at the time, both girls are too unwell to be traipsing about,” Severus shot back. “I fail to see why they need to be here at all.”

Kingsley finally spoke, setting his teacup aside. “Because, from what we can gather, He-who-must-be-named is currently in residence at Malfoy manor. We need all the information we can get about his plans, and about the manor, in order to capture him. This is the best chance we’ve ever had to be one step ahead of him.”

“But you’re not,” Hermione pointed out flatly. “It’ll be pretty damned obvious by now that his prisoners have flown the coop.”

“But it will not be obvious how you have escaped,” Kingsley pointed out, his voice resonant and deep. “He will be confused and angry, and likely to make rash decisions. If we can get the Aurors in a good position, it could mean his downfall. We have to take any opportunity we are given.”

“They know how they escaped,” Draco said darkly. Most of the heads in to room swivelled to look at the boy who’d tucked himself into a corner, shadows hiding most of his face. “There are only two people who can bypass the wards to the cellars,” he elaborated. “My father, and me. It’s a blood ward, and unless my father is given to sleepwalking, it must be obvious that I opened the door. Which is why I have asked for protection from Professor Dumbledore and the Ministry.”

“Well, that does complicate matters,” Dumbledore said with a hum of thought.

“There’s still the option of a portkey taken in with the girls, or created there,” Kingsley replied. “From everything I have heard, Miss Granger is most likely capable of the magic required to create one.”

“Auror Shacklebolt,” Severus drawled. “You are suggesting that not only should an eighteen year old learn how to create an unsanctioned, and thus, illegal portkey on the off chance she is ever kidnapped and held in an apparition-warded cellar, but that she should also be able to do so without her wand and whilst shackled in manacles specifically designed to dampen magic, shackles which are considered reliable enough to use on convicted murderers in Azkaban? I have heard enough of this. I will share with you any information I have on the manor, and I think we can deduce the Dark Lord’s motivations, considering the recent information he has been given. Headmaster, I will not apologise for taking any action I could to rescue these three girls. I regret that the necessary action has most likely alienated Draco from his family, but given his father’s leanings, I consider it no particularly lamentable loss. And now, I must ask that everyone leave so my patients can rest.”

“They can all come home to the Burrow to recover,” Molly said firmly.

“No, Madam,” Snape replied. “You may take your daughter, as is your right, but Harriet and Hermione will be staying here.”

“They’re as good as daughters to me!” Mrs. weasley gasped.

“But your daughters they are not. If you will excuse me, I must put Hermione and Harriet back to bed, and I have a lesson to teach in less than an hour. Hermione, Harriet, come with me.”

“Snape, since they’re Gryffindors, I have the right…” Lupin began.

“Out!” Severus roared, pointing to the door. “Everybody, out!” He knelt and bodily lifted Hermione from the sofa, cradling her in his arms with gentleness that belied his tone, and stalking off towards the bedrooms with her. 

Robin leant down so he could speak in Harriet’s ear, and she could hear him over the din of people arguing. “Come on, Kitten, let’s get out of here.” Harriet could only agree, slipping away as Mrs. Weasley advanced ever closer to Dumbledore, her voice rising in pitch and volume as she went. Harriet actually felt a bit sorry for the old man. 

Severus and Hermione hadn’t got as far as Severus’ bedroom at the end of the hallway. Severus had at least put Hermione down, through he still kept a hand protectively on her shoulder. “Are you well enough for company, Harriet?” he asked. “Hermione would like to spend some time with you.”

“Yeah, course,” Harriet replied with a ghost of a smile. “Erm, where’d you want to go? living room’s kind of taken.”

Robin sighed and opened his door, gently shoving Harriet through with a hand in the small of her back. “I’m going to fetch you some clothes, kitten. Any preferences?”

“Underwear,” she replied. “Definitely underwear.”

He rolled his eyes. Hermione followed Harriet in. “Goodness,” she breathed, looking up at the birds. “What kind of charms are on those? They’re not moving in set patterns, it looks organic…”

“Dunno,” Harriet replied with a shrug. “Ask Severus, he did it.” 

Hermione watched transfixed as a swallow swooped across the room. Harriet climbed back up onto the tall four poster and parked herself firmly back on her towel. she tucked her legs up so she could sit cross-legged and pulled the blankets up to cover her to the waist. “Severus made it pretty obvious that you two are together,” she said, pulling Hermione’s attention away from the birds. 

Hermione made a face and settled herself against the footboard of the bed. “Yeah,” she agreed sadly.

“Don’t you want people to know?” Harriet asked. She wanted nothing more than to be able to just be with Robin, with none of the skulking and lying and deceptions. 

“It could ruin his career,” Hermione pointed out. “Relationships with students aren’t exactly encouraged, though there’s not a school rule against it as long as the student’s of age. I was hoping that we could keep it secret at least ‘til the end of the school year… if he even wants to carry on past then.” She fiddled with a loose thread in Robin’s blanket.

“He seems to like you,” Harriet said gently. “I don’t think he looks after just anyone.”

Hermione looked up. “Is he affectionate with you?” she asked. “Like, does he hug you, that kind of thing?”

“He’s not much a of hugger,” Harriet pointed out. “He’s held me when I was upset, like I was a little kid. I suppose that counts.”

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed absently. “Are you… okay? I mean, the broken bones- do they hurt?”

Harriet stared down at the blankets. She wanted to tell  _ somebody _ , wanted someone to sympathise, someone who wasn’t close to the situation. “Aches a bit,” she said. “Just like any healed bones. But… turns out I might have been pregnant, so I’ve got to take this potion that makes me bleed and that hurts more.”

Hermione gasped. “Oh no!” she cried. “Oh, Harriet, that’s horrid!” She looked so stricken that Harriet almost wished she hadn’t said anything.

“It erm, sounds like you’re not too great down there yourself,” Harriet replied.

Hermione went pink. “I was, erm, well, I don’t know if you noticed at the time, but I was wearing a plug. In my… um, in my bum. They ripped it out, and then shoved it back in after, and I tore a bit. Nothing that some healing potions and a few days won’t cure,” she said. “Severus was… furious.”

“Why?” Harriet asked. “Not at you, surely? It wasn’t your fault!”

Hermione shook her head emphatically. “No, of course not! At Zabini, and Crabbe… and he’s angry with Draco for not being able to stop it.”

“Draco managed to save Ginny. That’s the important thing,” Harriet said firmly. “She… she hasn’t been through as much crap as us. She’s not as used to it. It’s better that she’s not hurt.”

Hermione nodded- they were in agreement there, but she didn’t have a chance to respond before there was a tap at the door, and Robin gingerly pushed it open. “Can I come in?” he asked. 

“It’s your room,” Harriet pointed out. 

Robin came in with a sigh of relief. He put a pile of clothes next to Harriet, a pair of pyjamas at the top of the stack. “It’s terrifying out there,” he admitted. “Dad’s yelling at Dumbledore, and the mousy fellow-”

“Lupin,” Harriet supplied. “He’s a werewolf, not a mouse,”

“Yeah, well, he’s busy telling anyone who’ll listen that he has more claim over you two than Dad. And crazy redheaded lady-”

“Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione supplied with a tiny smile.

“-Crazy redheaded lady’s refusing to leave without the two of you. Dad’s cast a charm so no one can get down the corridor. He had to break it and recast it for me.”

Harriet thumped her head back against the wall. She could feel the trace of a hot tear slipping over her eyelid and onto her cheek. “I wish they’d stop arguing about us,” she said quietly. “I just want everything to go back to normal, but I’m so scared. I don’t know why Voldemort wanted to… to…” she couldn’t say it, “to, you know. But I don’t think he’s just going to give up.”

“I know,” Hermione agreed quietly. “But maybe Kingsley’s right. Maybe they can get into Malfoy manor, now they know where he is. I don’t think we were much help though. I thought they’d want pensieve memories, or something. I was really scared that they’d want memories… I don’t want anyone seeing.” Harriet nodded dejectedly. Hermione looked helplessly at Robin, not knowing what to do about Harriet crying.

Very slowly, as if he were trying not to startle a skittish animal, Robin sat beside Harriet and reached out to mop up her tears. She forced herself not to flinch. Robin wouldn’t hurt her. She repeated that over and over again. Robin wouldn’t hurt her.


	59. This just in: Fire still hot

“Mr. Weasley, stay behind,” Severus intoned as the class packed up. Ron looked up, terrified. He hadn’t done anything to earn Snape’s wrath that lesson- for once, his potion was even the colour it was meant to be! With shaking steps, Ron approached the desk.

Severus ignored him until the last student filed out of the room, giving Ron a sympathetic look, and flicked his wand, slamming the door shut with some force. Ron flinched. “Oh, do stop shaking like a leaf, Weasley,” Severus snapped. “Harriet and Hermione have indicated that they would not be averse to a visit from you; would you like to see them now?”

Ron immediately perked up. “Are they okay?” he asked.

“They are both very frightened and suffered some injuries. Please try to let them lead conversation, and do not press them for details of their ordeal that they are unwilling to share. If they are tired, or become distressed, I must ask that you leave.”

Ron nodded, eager to see his friends. Severus gave him a pointed glare, then invited him through to the storeroom, opening the hidden door to his chambers. Ron didn’t much like being in the storeroom: he had too many memories of decanting vile ingredients during detentions. Then again, it was weirder being in Snape’s living room: the last time he was here, his internal organs had been at risk of extraction by spoon.

“Wait here,” Snape said. “I will see where they are.”

He vanished down the shadowy hallway in a flourish of robes, and Ron was left nervously standing in the middle of the living room, the strap of his bag clutched in his sweaty hands… talk about being in the lion’s den; or rather, the snake pit. A door clapped shut, then… silence. Ron shifted from foot to foot.

A bundle of black robes and bushy brown hair launched itself at him from the corridor. He grunted in surprise, dropping his schoolbag on his toes to wrap his arms around Hermione. He realised she was sobbing. He patted her hair awkwardly, telling her it would all be okay, but he didn’t really know if it would- he didn’t know much about what had happened. He looked over the mass of curls to see Harriet, a half smile on her face as she watched them. “Alright, mate?” he asked.

“Alright,” Harriet replied. “You?”

“I shall be in my study,” Severus said. “The door will remain open; call for me should you require anything.” He turned to retreat into the mysterious depths of his lair. Hermione finally detached herself, a stupid grin on her face even as she swiped away her tears. Ron couldn’t figure it out, but then, he could never understand girls very well. That was why he liked Imogen; she was simple, and didn’t fly off into a rage like other girls.  

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “It just all seems so… so strange…”

Harriet winced as she dropped to her knees to fill the kettle. All her muscles hurt, and her back ached with cramps that the potion Severus was giving her couldn’t quite mask. She reached for her wand to summon water, and only then remembered that it was gone. The stab of helpless fury hit her again as she remembered Malfoy’s cold face as he set fire to the shards of her crippled wand. She needed to ask for a trip to Diagon Alley to get a new one. She wondered if Mr. Ollivander was okay: no one had mentioned him, and she hadn’t thought to ask. Feeling stupid, she held out the kettle to Ron. “Ron, could you fill this?” she asked.

“‘Course,” he replied, casting _aguamenti_. Harriet didn’t expect to flinch hearing it, but the memory of the stinging, freezing water from Zabini’s wand was still fresh. “Where’s your wand?” Ron asked with a frown.

“They all got broken,” Harriet said shortly, not really wanting to think about it anymore, to have to relive the memory, even in words, to Ron. Would Ron think badly of her, of Hermione? They should have defended themselves, they should have found a way… Instead, they’d had to wait, to be rescued… she suppressed a snort. They’d never been rescued before. They sorted out their own messes, ever since the mountain troll. Was she weak, now? Was this the difference between Harry and Harriet- weakness? She didn’t look at Ron, not able to bear the look of pity she was sure would be there. She swung the heavy kettle over the fire to heat. “How’s Ginny? I heard she went home with your parents.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, Mum left a note for me with Lupin. She’s okay, I guess, just a bit shaken. Mum seems pissed.”

Neither Harriet or Hermione responded.

“So…” Ron asked stiltedly, “what happened? You just didn’t show up to dinner, then McGonagall reckoned it was nothing and sent me away… only Snape’d listen to me.”

“ _You_ went to Snape?” Harriet said incredulously, tucking her knees up to her chin.

Ron shrugged. “Well, yeah. I figured he’d care if you went missing, even if he didn’t much care about Hermione and Ginny.”

Harriet trained her gaze on a pink Hermione. Little did Ron know that Severus might be rather more interested in Hermione than Harriet. “Will you tell him, or shall we leave him in the dark?” she asked her blushing friend, determined to get at least a little amusement from the entire shitty situation.

“Oh, well, now you’ve said that, he’ll never stop until he knows!” Hermione snapped, though not really angrily.

Ron looked between them, bewildered. “What?” he asked.

“Fine!” Hermione huffed. “I’m… kind of seeing Severus.”

“What? Seeing who?” Ron asked, even more bewildered, temporarily apparently even forgetting his dreaded Potions master’s first name.

“Severus Snape,” Hermione explained as if to a stupid child. “Lives in the dungeons. Stares at you whilst you try to brew potions. That Severus. Do you know any others?”

“No…” Ron hedged, drawing out the syllable. “But ‘seeing’? I mean, I see him in Potions- wish I didn’t, but…”

Hermione was puffing in a cross between amusement and frustration, her expression going well with the sudden whistle from the kettle. “She means she’s sleeping with him,” Harriet informed Ron. He immediately began to splutter. She grinned, unable to hide her delight at his discomfort, his disbelief.

It wasn’t until she’d pulled the heavy kettle from the fire that she really noticed the searing heat across her hands. She dropped it with a cry, clattering the teapot over and casting tea leaves all over the hearth. A slosh of boiling water cascaded from the kettle spout, drenching everything.

Ron and Hermione both leapt from the sofa. Harriet cradled her hands to her, gasping in air. “Move!” Severus snapped, shoving Ron to the side. “Let me see,” he said more gently, not touching Harriet, but holding out his hands for hers.

Trembling, she pulled them away from her chest and offered them to him, palm up. Red weals were already forming across the palms and fingers, Severus hissed in sympathy. “Come,” he said. “You’ll need some burn salve to take away the pain.”

Harriet nodded, so distracted by the pulsing pain in her hands that she didn’t notice Robin until Severus helped her stand, his hand carefully under her elbow so as not to touch her injured hands. “Can I help?” Robin asked quietly.

“Go and get down some burn salve and some bandages,” Severus said. “Hermione, Mr. Weasley, stay here.” He guided Harriet through to his workroom, where Robin was already setting out burn salve, cloths and bandages next to a bowl of cool water. “Will you let Robin see to your hands?” Severus asked quietly. He hoped she’d say yes. Robin had been with him in his study when Harriet had yelled and both men had all but sprinted to her, Robin knocking over his chair in the process. And Robin had been angry. He felt helpless, he said. He could hardly touch Harriet without her flinching. He hated that she’d been hurt so badly, that he couldn’t comfort her like he wanted to. If she could see Robin as a healing influence, perhaps…

“Okay,” Harriet said, holding out her hands. Very, very gently, Robin took her wrists, guiding her hands to the basin of water to take some of the sting out of the burns. “Why did it burn me?” she asked, bewildered. “I’ve never been burnt like that before- I thought magic protected us from stuff like that?”

“Ordinarily, it does,” Severus replied with a frown. Robin took one of her hands out of the water, carefully dabbing it dry with a soft towel. She hissed in discomfort anyway.

Harriet bit her lip. “Did the spells in the cuffs damage my magic?” she asked quietly. Was her magic gone now? Could it be so easy to take it away? Robin had to squash a little jump of… something in his chest. If she had no magic, then they could just live a normal muggle life together… No. He couldn’t really wish her to be without magic, that wasn’t fair, he reprimanded himself.

“Let Robin finish your hands,” Severus said sternly. “Then you may try casting something with my wand. We shall see.”

Harriet fell silent as Robin carefully applied the sticky, cool salve to her hands and bandaged loosely over it. Severus began chopping pennyroyal: he was brewing up a large cauldron of post-coital contraceptive. Madam Pomfrey was still checking her stocks of contraceptive, but Severus was reasonably sure Harriet wouldn’t have the only adulterated dose.

As he finished bandaging, Robin brought her hand to his lips and kissed an unblemished part of her palm, his eyes never leaving hers. She gasped at the sudden low heat in her belly as he just looked at her, his eyes gentle, and snatched her hand away. Her cheeks burned. She shouldn’t feel like that! It wasn’t right, for her to think of anyone that way, and Robin… he couldn’t really want her now, could he? Damaged, dirty...She offered her other hand. “Can you do this one?” she asked stiffly. Robin looked down to doctor her other hand, but not before she saw the hurt in his eyes. She hated herself for it, wished she hadn’t, but pulling away from him hadn’t been a conscious thought. His fingers were infinitely gentle as he finished up her other hand.

“All done,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” she replied. “Robin… I’m sorry. I just don’t…” she trailed off.

He smiled weakly. “I’m here whenever you need me,” he told her.

She frowned, suddenly realising something. “Shouldn’t you be at uni?” she asked. “Or work?”

He shook his head, still with a little smile playing around his lips. “You think there’s any way I could sit and concentrate on Descartes, or making bacon sandwiches, when you were missing, then when you’re ill? I’m excused until at least Monday.”

“Oh,” she replied, surprised that he’d take time away from his life like that. “Erm, thanks.”

He tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. “Go back to your friends, kitten,” he suggested softly. “I’ll be here when you’re done.” He wanted so badly to kiss her, just leave the lightest of kisses on her forehead, but he didn’t want her flinching away again. He didn’t think he could take that.

“Harriet,” Severus said, his voice low. She turned to him to see that he’d abandoned his chopping, and was holding his wand out to her, handle end first. With a slight tremble, she took it.

“What shall I cast?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Something easy: the wand won’t respond well to you.”

She nodded. “ _Lumos,”_ she said firmly, not wanting to do anything that might cause breakages, like summoning potions. To her relief, the tip of the wand began to glow softly. She handed the wand back. It felt alien in her hand, cold and hard, and she was glad to give it back to Severus. “So why did the fire burn me?” she asked.

Severus sighed. “I have no idea. It may be an issue with focusing magic. Please just avoid touching anything hot until we can get you a new wand, at least. We can test the hypothesis more at that time. Ollivander was determined to return to his shop; I’ll owl him and see if he’s willing to open up the shop to find you a new wand. It would seem that he owes me a favour… I did effect his release, after all.”

“Wands for Hermione and Ginny too?” Harriet asked.

“If they would like, then yes,” Severus replied. “You’ll all need new wands as soon as possible, though the Weasleys may make separate arrangements. I will arrange it; do not waste time fretting. Go back to your friends if you feel well enough.”

Ron seemed to have finished spluttering by the time Harriet returned, though he looked rather more than mildly discomfited. Hermione poured Harriet a cup of tea. “Are you okay?” she asked with a knot of concern between her brows.

“Yeah, s’pose so,” Harriet replied, taking the tea clumsily in her bandaged hands. “Dunno what happened, I do that all the time, and I’ve never been burnt before. By the way, Severus is going to try to get Ollivander to open up the shop so we can get new wands.”

Ron’s eyes opened wide. “Oh!” he cried, suddenly excited. “I forgot to tell you! Something weird happened today.”

Harriet and Hermione looked at him expectantly. “Well?” Hermione prompted when no explanation seemed forthcoming.

Ron’s grin widened. “Neville caused havoc in Herbology today. Tried a watering spell and drenched most of the class! Then he summoned a plantpot from three feet away and every pot in the greenhouse came hurtling towards him! We had to dig him out.”

Harriet snorted at the image. “I’m sorry I missed that,” she complained with a grin. “Sounds like more fun than being cooped up here.”

“Yeah, why are you here?” Ron wanted to know. “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital wing?”

Harriet shrugged. “Severus thought we’d be more comfortable here,” she said.

Hermione interjected whatever Ron was going to say next. “How did Neville mess up such a simple spell?” she asked. “I would understand it if the spell failed. It’s Neville, after all. his confidence isn’t great. But to overreact so drastically? What happened?”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. But it was pretty funny, after we’d dried off and sent Neville to the hospital wing so Madam Pomfrey could heal his cuts and stuff.”

Hermione was still quiet and nibbling at her lip in thought when Severus came back to send Ron to dinner.

“Will you be back in lessons tomorrow?” he asked.

“They will not return until at least Monday,” Severus replied smoothly. Harriet and Hermione hadn’t really thought about it anyway.

“Oh,” Ron said flatly. “Can I… can I come back to visit later?” he asked.

“Not tonight,” Severus replied, holding out a measure of pain suppressant and muscle relaxing potion to Harriet. “We shall see about visiting tomorrow or over the weekend. He opened the door, Ron’s dismissal completely evident.

“Oh, erm, well, see you, then,” he told his friends.

“See you,” Harriet replied, but Hermione just offered up a half smile and a slight wave. Severus shut the door behind him, and settled into his chair.

“What would you prefer to eat?” he asked them.

Hermione didn’t really appear to have heard the question. “Why did Madam Pomfrey leave earlier?” she asked.

“I believe she had to patch up Longbottom after another of his escapades,” Severus explained. “Although, that does remind me… Madam Pomfrey has just sent me a message. She has concluded her review of her contraceptive potions. She found five more bottles which had been… tampered with. I fear that there will have to be full scale testing for pregnancy.”

“Can you even do that?” Hermione asked.

Severus gave a sigh. “If necessary, though that kind of mass testing for anything usually upsets parents and governors. There is no need for you to worry; your potion came from my private stores. Harriet, from now on, you will not use potions from the infirmary. I will provide for you as well.”

“But didn’t you say that loads of girls get their potions from other places?” Harriet wanted to know. “Why not just ask anyone who got their potions from the infirmary?”

Severus shook his head. He didn’t want to try to explain psychology and school politics to a pair of teenage girls. “Trust us, please,” he replied. “It will be dealt with as… sensitively as possible by people less terrifying than myself. Now, you two really must eat and rest. What would you like?”

 


	60. A Malfoy by any other name...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I'm so sorry for missing an update on Monday... life got in the way, but I'm back on track now. I'm chuffed to bits that a couple of people actually noticed  
> In exciting news, (at least) one of you wonderful people has nominated Harriet for an award! Voting for the Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards doesn't open for ten days yet, but hopefully you'll vote for this fic! :)
> 
> And so, here's a chapter I quite enjoyed writing. Because Plot. And Robin.

Harriet stared down at the blood soaked wad of gauze tucked into her knickers. The ruby padding seemed to stare back at her, accusatory. She’d had to change the pad in the middle of the night when she’d flooded it, and now this one was full too. She was terrified of bleeding on Robin: she was terrified of being with Robin. She’d lain stiffly beside him all night as he’d slept. She’d dozed, but nothing more. The darkness behind her eyelids seemed to be the darkness of the cell, but she didn’t want to ask Severus for more dreamless sleep. She didn’t want to be weak, but she felt weak. It had been over twenty four hours since she’d taken the stupid potion, and still she was bleeding like someone had stabbed her. 

She’d been stupid, she mused. She’d been caught unawares. She’d allowed herself to be disarmed, given up her wand to someone else. And… was there something she could have done? She’d played through it a thousand times in her head. If she had fought the petrificus harder… but no. Really, it was amazing she’d fought free at all, despite Blaise’s sloppy first cast. And after that? What if she’d managed to knock Lucius Malfoy unconscious? But then, Crabbe, and Zabini… she couldn’t have taken all three. What if she’d found something to do away with Voldemort- but what? A quill pen to stab him with as he slid his fingers inside her? The idea was so ridiculous that she let out a snort… and then a sob. 

She couldn’t stop; loud, breath-wrenching sobs erupted from her. She slipped down off the loo, curling her legs up to her chest as she sat on the cold flagstoned floor, burying her head into her drawn-up knees. The porcelain was hard and cold against the bones of her spine. 

Warm hands stroked her hair. “Harriet?” Robin asked. “Harriet, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Harriet just howled.

“Dad?” Robin called, a note of panic giving his voice an edge. “Dad!”

“Go and sit with Hermione, Robin,” Severus said quietly, already in the doorway. He just hadn’t wanted to interfere if Harriet could be comforted by Robin.

Severus didn’t demand she talked. Severus settled onto the stone next to her with a sigh. The side of his leg pressed against hers. He just sat, waiting. The heavy wool of his trousers and cool linen of his shirt brushed against her. Slowly, her sobs became less, and she could take full breaths again. Her head lolled to the side, pillowing on Severus’ bony shoulder. 

“Mr. Ollivander is willing to let you get a new wand on Monday morning,” he said conversationally, as if he wasn’t talking to a hiccoughing, tear stained, half naked girl making a little bloody puddle on his bathroom floor. She sniffled in response.

“Would you like some water?” Severus asked.

“Yes, please,” Harriet responded hoarsely. She felt like a flannel that had been wrung out- damp and thick and rough. A flicker of his wand summoned a glass, and he filled it, handing it to her. The water was icy cold. 

“Zabini used  _ aguamenti _ on me,” Harriet said after taking a sip. 

“What do you mean?” 

“After he…” Harriet took a deep breath, “after he raped me. There was blood, and his… his…”

“He cleaned you using a stream of water from his wand?” Severus asked gently when she faltered.

Harriet nodded. “It hurt,” she admitted. “It was freezing cold.” She fell silent for a moment. “If I see him again, I will kill him,” she said coldly. 

“There won’t be any need for that,” Severus replied.

“Why? Because I’m a girl? Because I’m weak? Because I need to leave it to the men to look after me?” she spat. 

“No,” Severus replied mildly. “Because his body was left at his family’s front door this morning. His muscles were atrophied from extensive use of the cruciatus curse, and he had numerous bodily injuries. The exact cause of death is currently unknown: he may have bled to death before a killing curse was required, or the bleeding may have continued posthumously.”

“So… he’s dead?” Harriet questioned stupidly. 

“He is. Given that there was a call for a general congregation of the Death Eaters last night, I would expect that the Dark Lord took his frustration at your escape out on Blaise. Luckily, I am excused from the general assemblies, given my position within the school. Blaise’s mother is said to be inconsolable.”

“How long have you known?” Harriet asked, her mouth dry and her glass of water forgotten. 

“Not very long. An hour, perhaps. Blaise’s stepfather contacted the school just before breakfast. He is threatening to bring a case for neglect and dereliction of duty to the governors of the school.”

Harriet let out a short, harsh back of laughter. “That’s ridiculous. He got what he deserved.”

Severus decided that this was probably a good moment to try to get Harriet to talk. “Why was it,” he asked mildly, as if he didn’t much care, “that Hermione and Ginny were clothed when you were in the cellars, and you were not?” 

Harriet curled further into herself. “Because when they undressed Hermione and Ginny, they left their clothes in the cell.”

“And yours were taken away?” Severus asked with a frown, trying to fathom some purpose for taking the clothes of only one girl.

“No,” Harriet explained. “I was taken upstairs to see Voldemort-” Severus fought down his reaction to the name, not wanting to put Harriet off- “and they took my clothes off there so he could, could… inspect me, I suppose. I wasn’t allowed them back.”

At least she was answering. “Did you hear anything interesting whilst you were there?” Severus pressed.

Harriet shrugged. “That I was more use to him alive than dead. That he was going to use me to-” here, she swallowed a sob, unwilling to cry again,- “to breed his heir. That there’d be gathering in three days time.”

“I suppose he used the plans for that gathering to punish Zabini,” Severus suggested gently. The slight tremor of her shiver was growing. He didn’t want to keep her here on the floor any longer, even if she was talking. “Would you like a bath?” he suggested. 

She sniffled and nodded, and he rose stiffly to start the hot water flowing. She breathed in, and almost smiled at the familiar smell. Rosemary and lavender, the same as Robin had used. That bath seemed such a long time ago now, as if it had happened to a different person. 

She didn’t bother to try to maintain modesty around Severus now. She’d been sat next to him with her pyjamas around her ankles for half an hour. She stripped out the top, and stepped away from the cottony blue fabric of the bottoms, noticing that they’d sopped up most of the blood, though some streaked her thighs. She stepped stiff-leggedly into the bath: her ankle still hurt a little if she jarred it. 

Severus settled himself on the side of the porcelain tub and handed Harriet a flannel and a bar of soap. More rosemary. 

“It has some healing properties,” he explained when she sniffed it.

“I know,” she said. “And it’s for fidelity. Robin told me.”

Severus inclined his head in a nod. “Robin is very worried about you,” he replied. “Please be careful. You risk pushing him away.”

Harriet looked down, clenching her hands under the water. “How can he still want me, Severus?” she whispered. “How can he love me, how could he make love to me, thinking of the people who did it before him? What if I see Zabini’s face instead of Robin’s?”

“Those are difficult questions. Remember, Harriet, though, that you are not the only one to have ever survived an ordeal like this. Perhaps not the same, but similar. You are not the first to have had these feelings. Hermione is almost as confused and upset as you are, and I should imagine that Miss Weasley, too, could be a support for you. 

“The hormones in your body will also not be aiding you,” he reminded her. “You are suffering a dramatic, traumatic, even, event as far as your reproductive organs are concerned. In a few days, a week, perhaps, it will be easier.”

She huffed out her breath. Easy for him to say. “It hurts,” she confessed quietly.

“Oh, Harriet, you should have said. I will provide you with a stronger potion.”

She shook her head. “It should hurt,” she whispered. “If it hurts, it’s working. It hurts because I’ve done something bad…”

He gripped her chin tightly in his fingers, tipped her face up to force her to meet his eyes. She swallowed hard, looking into the black pools. “You have done nothing bad, child,” he told her firmly. “Do not fall into believing everything you are told by society: they only mean to control you. The only moral judge you should submit yourself to is Harriet Jane Potter. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah,” she said meekly, not willing to argue with him just then. He looked almost angry. 

“Good,” he said, releasing her. “Get washed. I’m going to fetch you some clean nightclothes.”

“Can’t I wear real clothes?” she asked. “Being in pyjamas… it makes me feel like an invalid.”

He nodded brusquely. 

There was a thundering from Severus’ door as he appeared with a towel and a pile of clothes for her. He cocked his head to the side, as if listening to a voice she couldn’t hear. “Draco,” he said. “I should see what he wants. Can you get yourself dried off and dressed?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Good. Come through to the living room when you’ve finished, and have some breakfast.”

Her fingers were already starting to prune, so she didn’t linger in the bath. She did wish she could just perform a drying charm: the dungeon air was cool against her wet skin, but Severus had thoughtfully placed a warming charm on the towel, and on her clothes. He’d even secured a thick wad of gauze into her knickers for her. 

She’d have preferred jeans, but she had a pair of thick tights, a denim skirt and a Weasley jumper. She supposed that at least the skirt hid the evidence of what felt like a baby’s nappy between her thighs. The tights took some wiggling into, though, her legs still damp. Her ankle actually looked normal now, she noted almost clinically, the swelling gone and the bruising only a faint yellowish tinge. He’d left her no shoes.

Draco was pale and shaking when she made her way slowly into the living room. Robin carefully ignored him, instead studying his breakfast. Hermione appeared to have pushed hers to one side. 

Severus’ hand nudged into Harriet’s lower back, propelling her forward. “This should help with the pain,” he murmured, pressing a vial of potion into her hands. He crossed the room to Draco, placing a hand on his head as if in some kind of paternal benediction before crouching in front of the boy. He carefully wrapped Draco’s fingers around a glass beaker filled with milky calming draught. 

“What’s going on?” Harriet asked. She tried to ignore Robin’s hooded gaze, but she could feel his dark eyes on her anyway. 

Hermione held out a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ to her. “Page elven,” she said. 

Harriet frowned, but knelt at the coffee table and flicked through the paper to the indicated page. Births, marriages and deaths? Was it Blaise’s death, perhaps, that had affected Draco? But there was no ‘Zabini’ listed- it was probably too soon to be announced in the newspapers. Her eyes drifted up to ‘Malfoy’ instead.

_ Malfoy, Narcissa, (née Black) died in her sleep at home yesterday. The funeral service will be held privately and limited to close family. _

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harriet said, not really sure how she was meant to react. How did you react when someone’s parent died? She didn’t exactly have much experience in the matter. “Were you, erm, close to her?”

“Look again, Harriet,” Hermione muttered. “Right above that one.”

_ Malfoy (formerly), Draco Lucius:  The head of the Malfoy family, Lucius, formally disowns his son, Draco. Henceforth from this date, for the length of his natural life and beyond, Draco has no recourse to the Malfoy name or privileges.  _

“What does that even mean?” Harriet asked with a frown. “No recourse to the Malfoy name or privileges?”

“It means I’m nobody, nothing,” Draco spat out. “I have no family. I’m a bastard with no father, not even a mother. I am penniless, nameless. I may not use the Malfoy name, I may not contact my family for aid. I may not attend the funeral of my own mother.” His face was twisted oddly.

“Draco,” Severus began, but Draco cut him off

“Don’t tell me it will all be okay!” he cried, his voice rising in distress. Harriet felt awful- was all this because Draco had helped to rescue her? “My mother is dead, Severus! She is dead, and I didn’t get to say goodbye! We should have brought her, we should never have left her there!”

Severus growled, his patience for the day gone. “I am sorry for your loss, Draco,” he snapped. “Now, listen to me- let me complete my sentence before placing words into my mouth!”

“Sorry,” Draco said morosely. 

Severus took a heavy breath before continuing. “Very well.” He looked slightly uncomfortable. “I named you, Draco, at the request of your parents. If your father sees fit to remove your name, surely it is I who has the right to offer you a new one. If you wish to take it, you may use my name.”

“What?” Draco asked, confused. “Be Draco Snape?”

Robin set his bowl down with a thunk, rising with a frown and striding to his room. The door shut with more force than necessary. 

Severus looked after him with just the same frown on his face. Harriet sighed, standing to follow Robin. “Is there a problem?” he snapped. 

Harriet whirled. “Yes,” she said, her tone just as angry. “How about you think about what his name is for a moment!” She flounced down the corridor, pausing outside Robin’s room for a moment, catching her breath and slowing her heart. She pushed open the door. “Robin?” she asked quietly. 

“What?” he asked darkly. He was pulling a folder from his bag. he didn’t turn to look at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, shutting the door and leaning against it. “I know how you feel about not having the same name as your dad.”

Robin’s shoulders tensed and rose in a shrug. “It’s better this way. He gets an heir, for all purposes a son, who can do magic. It makes sense. I can’t blame him for it.”

“I don’t think he wants another son,” Harriet said quietly. “He just wants Draco to have something… some family. And surely you’re his heir anyway? You’re older.”

He still didn’t look at her, but his hands had stilled, clutching the grey lever arch folder tight. “That doesn’t mean much. I’m illegitimate, for a start. And you saw what happened there- the head of the family can do what he likes, disown any member of their family and cut them off.”

“Your dad’s not going to disown you!” Harriet cried. “He loves you, Robin. You know that.”

Robin finally turned. “If he’d wanted to be associated with me, he’d have given me his name. Never mind that, he’d have married my mother, and then it would never have been an issue. But no, he wouldn’t marry her, and he left her a single mother, ridiculed by her community and disowned by her parents, left me a bastard child. All because he said he couldn’t marry someone he wasn’t completely besotted with.” His voice rose from a low, silky growl to a shout. “He never wanted me. He just does his duty, and half a duty at that!” 

The door slammed open, sending a shocked Harriet tumbling to the floor on her hands and knees. Neither man seemed to notice, glaring at each other with eyes that could kill. “Will you cease this racket before you set something aflame again?” Severus hissed. 

“You have someone who can set fire to things deliberately now,” Robin snarled back. “I’ll just take my accidental flames elsewhere!” Harriet sat down hard on her bottom, curling her legs up to her chest again. Every word Robin shouted seemed to pierce right through her. 

“You are behaving like a child, Robin,” Severus said, low and dangerous. “Cease this nonsense. You cannot expect me to cast aside my own godson just to soothe your selfishness. I would do the same for Harriet if it were necessary.”

Robin turned and began stuffing his work back into his bag. It was only when he reached out for the painted robin which was fluttering around his head in agitation and stuffed it into the corner of his backpack that Harriet realised what he planned. He was leaving. She clambered to her feet. “He’s not selfish!” she cried. “It’s not selfishness to want to be accepted by your own family.”

Severus let out a rough bark of laughter, looking over his shoulder at Harriet. “Accepted? I have always accepted Robin. I could have abandoned Annie when she told me was pregnant, I could have never seen her again. But I ensured that she had a safe place to live. I attempted intercession with her parents. I was there when she gave birth, and I have never abandoned him. He would have been neglected, probably taken into care by the authorities had I left him to Annie’s sole supervision. Do not presume, Harriet, to tell me what it is to support a child. You cannot understand. That is not the choice you have made.”

Harriet’s hands went unconsciously to her lower belly. Suddenly, Robin was between Harriet and Severus, glaring at his father. “That was a low blow,” he snapped. “You know she’s bothered by it. This isn’t about Harriet; this is about you being ashamed of me. You’ve always been ashamed of me, your bastard squib progeny!”

Severus flicked his wand, warding the room for silence. He didn’t really want Draco or Hermione being witness to this. They may have already heard too much. He took a stride forward to grip Robin’s shoulders. He was less than an inch taller than his son, so they were eye-to-eye. “I am not ashamed of you, child,” he said hoarsely.

“If you thought I was worth anything, you wouldn’t hide me away!” Robin insisted. “You’d be happy to give me your name. But you never wanted me. That’s why you wouldn’t marry Mum,” he whispered brokenly. “Never mind the last name, you didn’t even care what my first name was. You would never had picked a name like Robin. Given your choice, I’d have been called Orestes, or Aeneas, or something with classical meaning. Not named after a fucking songbird.”

Severus released one of Robin’s shoulders to rub his forehead. “Caius. I would have called you Caius. I refused to allow your mother to give you Christopher as a first name,” he replied. “I didn’t want you to have such an overtly Christian name, not as an everyday name. Robin, child, I… I never expected to love you. Until you were born, until I held you… I didn’t expect to care what you were called.”

“As long as it wasn’t Snape,” Robin countered hotly. “You just don’t get it! You don’t understand!”

“There is nothing to understand,” Severus countered. “This is not important.” Robin shook with rage that was barely contained, his pale skin stained pink in anger.

“I grew up in a house where I had a different name,” Harriet cut in. “I grew up thinking I wasn’t worthy of their name because I was a freak. I was always different, I was never accepted. A name means a lot.”

Severus snorted. “The Snape name is not something you want: in Cokeworth, they knew my father, Tobias Snape, a drunken, abusive lout. Here, they know Severus Snape, the Death Eater, the hated half-blood Slytherin, the tormentor of children. That is not who you are, Robin- you are good, and kind and loving. You rise above what the Snape name could ever hope to represent. I offer it to Draco as a last resort, for even a poor name is better than no name at all. It will be detriment enough that he will always be known as the disowned Malfoy, but perhaps he can begin to redeem the Snape name. It is not you who is unworthy of the name; it is unworthy of you.”

“I’d have liked the chance to be the one to make it better,” Robin groused, though he seemed calmer now. 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “If you truly wish to take it, I will raise no objection. I no longer have any position to maintain in the Death Eater camp now: I have broken faith with them by offering my support to Draco so openly. But think carefully: you would have to explain the change in name to your friends in the muggle world.”

Robin nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed.

Severus stiffly wrapped his arms around Robin’s shoulders in an attempt at a hug. “I am proud to own to you, Robin. I would not so easily give the information that you are my child if I were not. You have proved yourself to be an admirable person, wizard or no. I admit that I wish you had shown magic as a child, and not when you were a teenager, too old for schooling, but I am proud of you nevertheless.”

“Thanks,” Robin muttered gruffly. Severus did something he had not done in many years, kissing the crown of Robin’s downturned head. He released his son with a brusque nod, turned, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. The silencing spell broke with a soft pop as he crossed the boundary. Robin took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Thank you, kitten,” he said softly.

She looked up. “What for?” she asked, a tremble in her voice. 

He smiled. “For coming after me. For standing up to Dad. I know you don’t want to be with me at the moment.”

She shrugged. “I dunno,” she replied. She sighed. Perhaps this was the morning for big confessions. “I’m just really scared, Robin,” she admitted in something just a little above a broken whisper. She leaned against the wall and slowly dropped back down to sit on the floor, her arms loosely chained around her knees. “I don’t understand how any of this is supposed to work. I don’t see how I can just go on with life as if nothing had happened.”

He folded himself into a crosslegged position in front of her, carefully keeping a little distance. “I don’t expect you to go on as if nothing happened. I’ve promised you before that we’d go as slowly as you needed, as slowly as you wanted,” he said. “That promise never went away, Harriet. We do things only when you’re ready, and I will never think badly of you for being scared. I just want to know that you don’t hate me. I want to be able to look after you.”

“I don’t hate you,” she assured him. “I hate Zabini, but he’s dead. I hate Voldemort, but I’ve always hated him. I guess I hate Lucius Malfoy, but you’re not him.” She fell silent for a few moments. “What did you mean, about setting fire to stuff?” she asked.

“I sort of, erm, set fire to the sofa when I heard where you were,” he admitted, shamefaced. “It was the first time Dad’s seen me do accidental magic. I’d never told him I could do it, because I thought it would make him angry that it took me so long. I just used to nick his wand when he was busy and try stuff to see if I could do it. Mostly it just gave me a headache. He wasn’t as annoyed as I’d thought… I guess having you and Hermione missing mitigated it. A bit pissed off that I’d apparently waited until I was twenty to manifest, but...”

Harriet’s brow furrowed. Twenty? Robin was nineteen... Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “Robin! Your birthday… I’m sorry, I’d forgotten… I’m so sorry!”

He quirked one eyebrow. “With everything that happened, love, I hardly blame you. I have to say, it was the crappiest birthday I’ve ever had, though. I don’t advise a kidnapped girlfriend as a birthday present.”

She half smiled. “Maybe I should have bought you a wand,” she quipped. “Your present’s in my room.” She’d had to get Severus’ help to find out what he’d want, and to order it. HMV didn’t usually deliver by owl post, so Severus had offered to buy some CDs Robin had mentioned wanting for her, as he would be in the muggle world anyway, finding Robin a present from himself. 

“Don’t worry about it, kitten,” he said, standing gracefully and offering her a hand. “Right now, the best present I could have is being able to hold you and make sure you’re okay. I just don’t want to scare you.”

“I’ll try,” she agreed, letting him help her up. “I am trying… it’s just that nothing seems to make any sense any more.”


	61. Afternoon tea

Severus finally allowed Harriet to return to her own room on Saturday morning, as long as there was someone with her all the time until Monday. She used her freedom to invite Hermione, Ron, Neville and Luna for tea and cake in the afternoon, and felt almost normal. Ron delivered Neville and Luna, then left, mysteriously promising to return soon. She wasn’t even the centre of attention: Neville was too polite to ask where she had been and Luna just gave both girls a long look, saying nothing, although it was clear she suspected something afoot. It helped, of course, that Hermione barely gave them a chance to sit down before she metaphorically (though she was close to making the action physical) pounced on Neville. “So, Neville, what did Madam Pomfrey say?” she asked.

Poor Neville looked bewildered. “Come again?” he asked, blinking.

“I heard you buried yourself under a pile of flowerpots,” Hermione explained with a heavy show of patience and a smile that suggested she was speaking to a five-year-old.

“Uh, yeah. Well, it was just a few scrapes, really. Flowerpots aren’t heavy. She healed me up and sent me back to lessons.” 

“But why did it happen?” Hermione pressed. “Surely you didn’t  _ mean _ to summon them all? You never normally summon anything if you can pick it up anyway.”

Neville shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “I just sort of… fancied summoning it. I felt like I could. But I can’t.”

“Have a cake, Neville,” Harriet interrupted, shoving the plate of pastries beneath his nose. She didn’t have the brainpower to follow Hermione’s current line of thought: her thoughts still seemed fuzzy and slightly indistinct. Neville looked slightly bewildered, having just eaten a biscuit, but took one anyway. Hermione didn’t seem to get the hint.

“Do you feel different? It’s all just a bit odd, isn’t it? Have you tried casting anything else?” Hermione continued, completely ignoring Harriet’s interruption, and not leaving breathing room between questions for any attempt at an answer. 

“Erm, no,” Neville replied through a mouthful of cake. “Didn’t really want to, in case…”

“Is your wand broken?” Hermione pressed before he had even finished. “Ron’s wand did weird stuff when it broke.” Harriet snorted, remembering the slugs. Pelted by pottery was certainly a better fate than throwing up malacological wildlife.

Neville tugged his wand from his pocket and sent it flying end over end towards Hermione. She caught it with a fumble, and set to examining it intently. 

“So, what else has happened whilst we’ve been gone?” Harriet asked, trying to break the discomfort. 

“There were some wolligogs in the owlery the day before yesterday,” Luna informed them with glee. 

“Apparently, they’re very good luck, and owls really like them,” Neville said with an indulgent smile. He reached over to take Luna’s translucent-pale hand in his and squeezed it. She beamed up at him. “Our post should all be on time as long as they stay.”

“Erm, that’s good,” Harriet agreed with a nod. No one but easygoing Neville could spend so much time with Luna without at least making a face at her fancies and superstitions. Everyone else either avoided her, or found her amusing for a short time before wanting to strangle her. Hermione couldn’t be left alone with her for more than about half an hour. Harriet had always felt a strange affinity with Luna since she’d first seen a thestral, and mostly found the younger girl rather charming, but even she couldn’t manage the same patience as Neville. 

Harriet’s wards chimed, and she climbed out of her chair. She was slightly nervous when she opened the door, worried that Ron might have brought the whole of Gryffindor with him as some kind of gesture of friendship, but he was alone. Good. She was far too tired to deal with so many people. He shoved a grubby grey bundle into her arms. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Meant to bring them down earlier, but I didn’t have time to get them after lunch.”

Harriet frowned, unwrapping the fabric, then gasped. It wasn’t just any fabric, it was the silky softness of her invisibility cloak. “Oh! How did you get it?” she asked. 

Ron shrugged. “I fell over it, actually,” he admitted. “I was wandering round on the edge of the forest, looking for some kind of sign of where you’d gone, and I tripped over. Your book’s a bit soggy, mind.”

Her potions text did look a little worse for wear, and there were a few twigs and leaves caught in the fabric of the cloak, but she couldn’t stop herself grinning from ear to ear anyway. She flung herself at Ron. He caught her with a grunt. “All right now. Don’t go all girly on me,” he grumped, but he still hugged her back. She stepped back with a blush, and he raised one hand to gently stroke the back of it against her pink cheek. “I’m glad you’re back,” he told her. 

“That’s just because you can’t win the quidditch cup without a seeker,” she quipped.

“You know me so well,” Ron replied with a grin. “Is there cake left?”

“‘Course,” Harriet replied. “Come on, you can rescue Neville from Hermione. She thinks there’s something up with his magic.”

Ron snorted. “Trust our Hermione to be more worried about him than herself right now,” he replied. “He’s not the one that got kidnapped by a raving lunatic.”

Half an hour later, Harriet had tucked her legs up to her belly in her chair to try to mitigate the cramping that was coming through the potions. She set her still half-full cup of tea aside, wrapping her arms around her legs. A few minutes afterwards, she tipped her head to the side to rest it against the back of the chair. She was starting to get light headed, her thoughts swimming oddly. Luna watched her as her eyes fluttered closed, then open again as Harriet fought sleep. The other three were in deep discussion of lessons, Hermione quizzing both Neville and Ron on what she’d missed, and any homework that had been assigned. Severus had refused to tell them the assignment he’d set for potions, insisting that neither of them were well enough. 

“Harriet, are you alright?” Luna asked. “You look very tired.”

Harriet’s head jerked back up. “Oh, yeah, I am,” she said. “It’s been a busy week… I haven’t slept much.” That fitted with the story she and Hermione had agreed to tell: that there had been some legal matters that had to be sorted regarding Harriet’s inheritance, and Hermione had gone to help her sort it out, given that she was going into a career in wizarding law. 

“Neville, we should leave Harriet to rest,” Luna declared. “Else you might get a nargle infestation. They always like tired people.”

“I thought they liked mistletoe,” Harriet queried, remembering something Luna had said before. 

Luna nodded with a blinding smile. “Yes, they do. But they like tired, stressed people more- it’s easy for them to make you angry that way. Come on, Neville.” She waited for Neville to stand and offer her his hand, taking it daintily as he smiled down at her. 

“Will you be back in lessons Monday?” Neville asked, sparing a concerned glance for Harriet.

“Not Monday. Probably Tuesday,” Hermione replied when Harriet didn’t. Luna tugged on Neville’s hand, and he went with a slightly worried smile. 

Ron stood too. “Should… should I go?” he asked. 

“No. Stay here with her. I’m going to get Severus,” Hermione replied. 

“I’m just tired,” Harriet grumped. 

“Yeah, and you slept ‘til gone ten this morning. That’s not normal for you.” Hermione pointed out. “Stay there.”

Harriet flopped her head back against the chair again. “Fine.” She didn’t much have the energy to argue. Ron perched on the edge of the coffee table as Hermione took down the pot of floo from Harriet’s mantle. “I’m fine,” she insisted, through Ron just gave a noncommittal grunt. “Can you take quidditch practice for me tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah, because you aren’t going near a broom anytime soon,” Ron agreed. “You’d fall off, most likely. You seriously don’t look well.”

“Mr. Weasley is quite right,” Severus agreed, swirling through the floo. Ron went wide-eyed in shock. “It is possibly the only time in our too-long acquaintance in which we have agreed on anything.” He laid a long-fingered hand across Harriet’s forehead. “What is wrong, Harriet?”

“I’m just tired,” she snapped. “Can I have another potion?”

Severus glanced over his shoulder to check the clock on the mantle. “In another hour,” he replied shortly. “Is the pain that bad?”

She just nodded. Severus glanced at the other two present. “I need to check Harriet over,” he informed them curtly. “Mr. Weasley, I suggest you return to wherever you normally spend your free time. Hermione, you may go back to my quarters.”

Hermione nodded, already reaching for the floo powder again, but Ron stood his ground. “Shall I fetch Madam Pomfrey?” he asked. His implication was clear: if Harriet was ill, she needed the school nurse.

“That will not be necessary,” Severus replied in his typical clipped tone. “I’m sure you will be able to visit again when Harriet is feeling better.”

“But…”

“That was a dismissal, Weasley,” Severus snapped. “Gather your belongings and leave.”

“It’s okay, Ron,” Harriet said from behind Severus. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, shouldering his bag. “You keep saying that.” he dragged his feet all the way to the door, as if waiting to be called back. Severus glared after him.

“Would you like me to get Robin?” Hermione asked quietly.

Severus gave a jerk of his head from one side to the other, intended to indicate no. “He has returned home for a few hours. Harriet and I are coming through anyway. Are you well enough to use the floo unaided, Harriet?” he questioned. 

She struggled out of her chair. “I’m fine. All I want is another potion and to go to bed,” she insisted, clinging to the back of the chair for support.”

“You will not get another potion until I examine you. You should not be having these symptoms.”

“That’s blackmail,” Harriet grumbled. 

“Hardly. But what do you expect from a former Death Eater?” he asked archly, his eyebrow raised in question. She didn’t grace him with a response before stepping into the floo. Hermione had to catch her on the other side. Severus let out a sigh, gathering Harriet up against him, then hoisting her into his arms.

“I’m fine!” she snapped.

“No, you are not. In fact, you appear to be a broken record,” he corrected. He nudged the door to Robin’s room open with his foot and deposited her on the bed. “Stay there. I’m going to get you a potion.”

“Severus?” she whispered before he left. He turned. “I feel a bit sick.”

“Has it just come on?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

“A reaction to the floo, in all likelihood,” he soothed. He summoned a bowl anyway, setting it on the bed next to her. He checked her temperature again with his hand: she felt normal, but he didn’t want to miss anything. “I’m going to cast some diagnostic spells,” he informed her. He was wary of raising his wand to her: he was still waiting for her to really lash out about her kidnap. Hermione had cried and screamed and railed against the unfairness of it all, but so far, Harriet had shown less reaction, and her ordeal had been worse. 

“Fine,” she said dully, and Severus cast, having to rely on the incantation for standard diagnostics. He cast them so rarely that a wordless casting would not have been effective. Her temperature was normal, but she was dangerously anaemic. He mentally berated himself, of course she was. She had lost a lot of blood. He noted that she could probably do with a dose or two of blood replenishing potion as well. The golden glow around her abdomen flickered: her magic was beginning to recognise the end of the pregnancy. In a day or two, the spells wouldn’t be able to pick it up.

There was evidence of healing magic lingering around her, not Poppy’s spells, but Harriet’s own magic, struggling to ensure everything was as it should be. He cast the spell which would allow a healer to visualise a patient’s magical core; hers seemed weak: it was little wonder she was tired. “Have you been trying to cast any spells?” he asked as gently as he could manage, tucking his wand back into his sleeve. 

“No,” she replied shortly. 

It must be subconscious magic, then. He wondered if her body was trying to maintain the embryonic pregnancy. There was little he could do about that: it would improve when she had a wand again to channel power, instead of pulling it raw and using it in brute force. “You are deficient in iron,” he informed her. “That can be remedied. Allow me a moment to fetch some potions for you.” She nodded, then snuggled down into the pillows, dragging the blanket over herself. 

Severus had only two bottles of the potion he needed left: he would have to brew some more later. He’d sent a batch to the infirmary not so long ago: Poppy added it to the painkillers offered for menstrual discomfort. He gathered a blood replenisher and a painkilling potion, but a sharp rap against his door distracted him before he could return to Harriet. He frowned deeply. He hoped it wasn’t the Weasley boy again. The boy was entirely too persistent. He made his way to the door, his clutch of potions secure in his hand.

“Poppy,” he greeted solicitously, an eyebrow raised in question of her presence. 

“Severus,” she replied briskly. She launched straight into the reason for her visit. “Have you seen Harriet Potter? I’ve just had a visit from Ronald Weasley- he believes she may be unwell. She’s not in her room.”

Severus groaned. Damn the Weasley child. “She’s fine,” he snapped. “She’s here. A little anaemic, and tired, but she will be fine. Is that everything?”

“Would you like me to take a little look?” Poppy queried. Severus only glared. “Don’t look at me like that, it was only an offer,” she huffed. She turned to go, and Severus began to shut the door again. “Oh!” she cried, whirling around again. With a sigh, Severus opened the door again, regarding her with an arched eyebrow. “Would you be free to visit the headmistress with me this evening? I was intending to go up at about seven, about this contraceptive potion disaster…”

Severus inclined his head. “I will be there,” he promised. 

She smiled tightly. “Thank you,” she said, inclining her head in appreciation. “I’ll let you get back to Harriet.”

He nodded sharply and shut the door again. “Is everything okay?” Hermione’s small voice asked from behind him. 

“Nothing for you to worry about, pet,” he replied. “I will be in Robin’s bedroom with Harriet, you know by now to make yourself at home in here.”

“Yes, Sir,” she murmured. Severus spared a moment to run his hand across her infernal hair before proceeding back to Harriet. If someone had told him a year ago that he would feel affection for Hermione Granger, he might have cursed them. He could not fault her desire for submission, though, and she was pretty enough to flatter him. He was really becoming rather attached to the girl. She responded so beautifully to a firm hand and a good dose of affection.

A rare smile tipped the corners of Severus’ lips. Harriet was curled tight, hugging a pillow to her, and fast asleep. He set the potions down on the bedside table, already littered with a bottle of painkiller, a beaker and a spoon along with a copy of  _ Winnie the Pooh _ . Apparently, Robin had been reading to her again. Severus shook her shoulder as gently as he could. “Wake up, Harriet. You can sleep after you’ve had your potions.”

She grumbled, but he managed to coax her to sit up enough to take her potions without more than a little splutter at the bitterness. Severus stroked his hand over her head, brushing her hair back as she settled back into the pillows. She was paler than usual, he realised, but it was hard to notice such changes in the dim, artificial light of the dungeons.

He could have been there for her all through her life. He regretted not taking her from the ruins of the cottage at Godric’s Hollow more than anything but his decision to follow the Dark Lord in the first instance. He could have saved her such heartbreak and pain. He could imagine living with Robin and Harriet in a little house somewhere, working as a mediwizard… perhaps he could have found a way to reverse the changeling spells, return her to her true form as a child... he shook his head. There was no use dwelling on the past in such a fashion, after all. He could change nothing. He eased her glasses from her face and set them on the bedside. 

Hermione was setting out tea things when he returned to the living room. She held out a letter to him. “This came through the floo,” she offered.

He took the missive. Lucius Malfoy’s handwriting was as familiar to him as that of his more diligent students, students who actually completed all of their homework. It must have been delivered to the Head’s office: Owls could not reach the dungeons, as all of the windows were enchanted. Minerva must have felt it urgent enough to send to him, and not wait to hand it to him at dinner in less than an hour. He broke the seal.

_ Severus, _

_ I am informed by Henricus Parkinson that the boy who was my son is claiming to your name. I await your fervent assurances that this is not the case. _

_ L.M. _

Severus swore, clutching at his arm as pain bloomed through the Dark Mark. This was no general summons: the Dark Lord was calling for him specifically.  


	62. The best laid plans of snakes and lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!!! I’m going to be off on holiday now for a couple of weeks, and my internet is probably going to be patchy…. But I do have a little stockpile of chapters all written, and my long-suffering proofreader has agreed to put them up for me whilst I’m away. So if they’re not up on time, it’s not my fault :)
> 
> Speaking of chapters being pre-written, I had just finished writing this one back when Harriet, Hermione and Ginny were rescued from the clutches of Lucius Malfoy (yes, I agree, he's a nasty bit of work). The comments on the immediate aftermath of that amused me, because no one could believe how mean Dumbledore was. Well, when I started this chapter, I never expected him to say the things he does. He wrote himself… I promise!
> 
> In exciting news (for me, anyway...) I'm writing a bit of backstory to Robin. There's no plot, no update schedule, just fluff, but you can find the first chapter on my author page, named 'Hatching Robin'. If you're interested, go and give it a read!
> 
> With that out of the way, on with the story!

Severus grimaced, clutching involuntarily at his arm. The bursts of pain were becoming ever more frequent. The first had lasted only ten seconds or so, and then there was an hour of nothing… grace for him to extricate himself from whatever situation he was in. Then another, and half an hour later, again. Each was getting longer, and it was getting harder to just grit his teeth. He knew that soon enough, the Dark Lord would grow truly impatient, and the pain would be near constant. He’d never ignored a summons for this long before. 

He dragged his attention back to Poppy and Albus, the pain receding slightly before spiking thirty seconds later. A grunt of pain escaped him.

“Severus, what is the matter?” Dumbledore asked mildly. 

“I am being summoned,” Severus ground out. They had tried to have this discussion without the older man present, but as he lived above the head’s office, he knew when Poppy and Severus arrived to speak with Minerva about the situation with the contraceptive potions. So far, his presence was anything but conducive. 

“Then why are you not going, my boy? We can manage here quite well in your absence.”

Severus muttered that he doubted that. “I’m afraid my days of spying are over, Headmaster. I have offered Draco the use of my name following Lucius’ removal of the Malfoy favour from him. Draco has accepted my offer, and as news tends to, the change has reached the ears of the Dark Lord. I would have preferred Draco to keep his mouth shut for a few more days, at least.”

Dumbledore frowned deeply. “Why was I not kept informed?” he asked. 

Minerva spoke up. “I dealt with it, Albus,” she replied. “I thought it best not to disturb you for a reasonably trivial matter.”

Dumbledore leaned forward. He coughed. Severus winced, the sound going through him, as tense as he was. The curse had spread up the headmaster’s arm despite all effort to contain it, and was making steady progress to his heart, having already infected his left lung. “You may be pushing me out as head of this school with the blessing of the board of governors, but I am still head of the Order,” he ground out. “You did not have my permission for this!”

Severus slapped his hands down on the desk, leaning over it threateningly. Pain made him quick to act. “I resign,” he hissed. “I have ignored my family obligations for too long. I will no longer take part in the machinations of the Order. From this moment on, I am a neutral force.”

“Severus!” Minerva gasped.

Albus turned as purple as his favourite robes. “You… you can’t!” he ground out. 

“I am finished with being your lackey,” Severus snapped. “This is non-negotiable. I suggest we get back to the topic at hand: how are we to bring all the female students in for pregnancy testing?”

Albus pressed his hands against the arms of his massive chair, and, shaking, stood. “”And just how, my boy, do you intend to extricate yourself so neatly?” he asked, carefully measuring his tone, but just unable to completely suppress the tremble of rage in his voice. “You owe me everything, and how do you intend to manage that brand of shame upon your arm?”

“I advise you use caution,” Severus hissed. “I am younger and stronger than you, and possibly the only action that would redeem me in the eyes of the Dark Lord now is to bring him your body.”

Dumbledore suddenly looked thoughtful. “Or if you were to bring him Harriet Potter,” he suggested slyly. “He clearly lapped up the prophecy you gave, and it would buy us months, maybe years as he gets a child on her.”

Severus slapped his hands against the desk and growled in rage. Minerva and Poppy both gasped. “Albus!” Poppy admonished. “You cannot possibly suggest that we send the girl back to him?”

Dumbledore lowered himself back into his seat, smiling benignly. “It seems the best solution to the problem. It will give us time to build our support base, plan our strategy. I’m sure there are potions we can give her first to prevent a pregnancy, though perhaps it would be best to give Tom what he wants in time: it will stall him…”

“You have run mad!” Severus snapped out. “You have finally completely taken leave of your senses!”

“For the greater good, my boy…”

“Headmaster, you cannot be considering this?” Minerva asked. “She is a child!”

Poppy lent her support. “You can’t send a person to that kind of fate! You saw how those three girls were when they were returned, and that was before You-know-who got his hands on them! She will certainly be subjected to multiple instances of rape and who knows what other tortures!”

“She is necessary to the war effort. She knows this, she has known this for some time. It is better to sacrifice one soul for the good of many. She has no family to become upset, and her friends are young. They will move on, find new friends. She will be a martyr, she will be remembered as a crucial part in our victory.”

Minerva and Poppy were both beyond words. Severus, though pale and trembling with rage, was not. How could Albus even consider such a course of action? “She is as much someone’s child as anyone else! Just because her parents are in no position to complain to the board of governors does not mean she is lesser! That is Lily’s child you plan to throw to the wolves, Albus!”

Dumbledore’s brows had knitted together in anger. “I have taken guardianship of her since her parents died, and I have made this decision. You will retrieve her from your rooms, and you will take her with you to see Tom. The matter is settled. We will make attempts to regain her if at all possible.”

There had been many times in Severus’ life when he had been angry. He had learnt, over the years,to conceal his emotions behind a stony facade, always playing the acerbic, ill-tempered man, the man who would not suffer a fool lightly, but rarely showed anger. He had learnt in his teenage years that anger achieved little: lashing out at his drunken father usually resulted only in personal injury. 

He had been angry when Dumbledore refused to allow him to take baby Harriet and raise her. He had been angry when he was once more forced into the role of spy upon the Dark Lord’s return, punished again and again for his youthful folly. It was his anger that had driven him to join the Death Eaters in the first instance: his anger at his muggle father, who could never accept him because of his magic, his anger at his wizarding grandfather who would never accept him because of his muggle blood, his anger at the likes of perfect James Potter. He had wanted to be something more, something of his own, and had not realised the extent of Tom Riddle’s lust for power until far too late. 

His fist was curled tight around his wand, each ripple and imperfection in the wood digging into his palm. Each knock and chip, born of years of long use reminded him of every time he had acted to save his own life, acted to save the life of his child. Well, now he had three children. He should have fought for Harriet like he had cared for Robin all these years. “No.”

“You owe me everything!” Dumbledore spat out, two points of pink rage highlighting his cheeks beneath his thinning beard. “I gave you your job, your life! I helped you hide your crippled child, your shame from the world! I know what it is to have a squib in the family, and I protected you from that! I have openly given you my trust: without me, you would never be accepted in good society. Do this for me, and I will not bring my complaints about your sexual liaison with a student to the forefront. I could ruin her life as well as yours.”

Severus was dimly aware of Minerva and Poppy’s raised voices behind him, but the primary sound was his own pulse in his ears, blocking out almost everything else. Deliberately, he levelled his wand to Dumbledore. “I have never been so close to committing murder, old man,” he said calmly. “I have kept my wand clean of blood for this long, will you make me dirty it now?” His voice was low, little more than a hiss, but it echoed loudly in his own head.

Dumbledore threw back his head and laughed. “What? You’ll kill me, boy? Here I stand!” he chortled. “You are too late, Severus. You think to kill me? I’m dying anyway. You could have killed me months ago. It is you who has been pouring your concoctions down my throat to keep me alive.”

“And how I regret it now,” Severus replied evenly. “You will cease to meddle in Harriet Potter’s life, and you will cease to meddle in mine.”

Dumbledore didn’t seem to notice the interruption. “You think you haven’t committed murder? You are responsible for every death and atrocity committed in the name of Voldemort since the moment you took that brand, you and every other witch or wizard who followed his lead.”

Minerva’s voice was low, close to Severus’ ear, speaking over Dumbledore.. “Don’t do this, Severus,” she murmured. “Don’t listen to him: your soul is clean; you have repented. Do not spoil it now. We won’t let him take Harriet. It will not happen. Go back to your chambers, find some way to deaden the pain of your mark. We will find a way here.”

“You have taken leave of your senses, Albus,” Severus ground out, struggling to force the words past the tight lump of anger at the base of his throat. “You cannot claim to have been a guardian to Potter. You left her with relatives who neglected her, you have have allowed her into danger, nay, led her to danger, on too many occasions to number. She has always been a pawn to you, nothing but a piece in your game. She is a human being, Albus, a girl with feelings, a life. She is so near breaking point that I fear her magic lashing out. I believe she could kill if further provoked.”

Dumbledore laughed, a harsh, rattling sound, like metal grating. Severus knew a potion that could help, but Albus could die in agony before him as far as he could care. With a final withering glare, he turned from his mentor of so many years.

“Harriet will not go,” he informed Minerva firmly. “I will not go.” He didn’t wait for an answer before marching out with all the dignity he could muster. For Severus Snape, this meant a ramrod straight back, perfectly measured steps, a fearsome frown and a fully occluded mind. Even at the height of his power, Dumbledore may have had trouble breaking such a formidable defence: now, in his dying days, even he, one of the strongest legilimens known, had no chance.

Robin had not long returned from Manchester with a bag full of books and essay notes when Severus got back from the head’s office. Severus ignored his son, striding to the drinks cabinet and pouring a very large measure of firewhiskey. He knocked it back in one go, the burn down his esophagus dulling the stabbing in his left forearm. He poured another, staring into the amber depths for a moment before tipping his head back and downing it. “Dad?” Robin asked, uncertain. 

“Where are Harriet and Hermione?” Severus asked, still staring into his empty glass. He wanted more, but he was already courting liver failure if he wanted to take any potions as well. 

“Hermione’s in your library,” Robin said, keeping his voice quiet. He could almost see the thrumming tension in his father’s shoulders. “Harriet’s napping. I woke her about five minutes ago to give her a drink of water, but she fell straight back asleep.”

“She’s been suffering from anaemia from the blood loss,” Severus said shortly. “Her magic has been keeping it at bay.” He reached for the firewhiskey again. His liver be damned.

Robin pulled it from his fingers. “That’s mine, boy!” Severus snapped, grabbing for it. He had to grip the cabinet before he stumbled, the quick introduction of alcohol not aiding his coordination, though a fresh wave of agony through his dark mark was just as much to blame. 

Robin sprang out of his reach, holding the bottle of spirits firmly away. The ghosts of flames licked through the bottle. “What’s happened?” he asked Severus. “Is something wrong with Harriet? Tell me.”

Severus could have fetched another bottle of something from the cabinet, but Robin probably would have removed it. Severus wasn’t sure he could take the fight. He groaned, rubbing at his head with his right hand. “If you won’t let me have another drink, at least get me a potion for pain. Actually, no, a numbing salve. There’s some blizzard’s bite on the top shelf to the right.”

Robin wanted to ask why, but a single look at Severus suggested that it would be better to act first and ask later. He took the bottle with him anyway: he wouldn’t put it past his father to choose to forgo the glass and just neck it, as ragged as he looked. 

By the time he returned with the pot of sparkling blue paste, Severus had stripped out of his robes and was rolling the sleeve of his linen shirt up. Robin offered the wide mouthed glass jar. Severus glanced up with a sneer. “Well? Open it, boy,” he snarled. 

“What the actual fuck is going on?” Robin snapped back, popping the cork from the jar and offering it again. Severus scooped up a large glob and smeared it over the dark mark.

A hiss escaped from between his teeth as the cold went down to the bone. He could feel the icicle shooting up his arm, but the mark went blessedly numb.  He knew it wouldn’t last for long, perhaps an hour or two, but it cleared his head of pain for now. “The Dark Lord is summoning me,” he explained shortly. “I fear that if I go, I will be killed for siding with Draco over his father.”

“Then why did you do it?” Robin huffed. “Why did you offer the kid your name if it was going to out you as a turncoat? You’ve done this for so long, just to throw it away?”

“Draco is my godson,” he growled. “I have a duty to him. I have ignored my duty for too long, excluding all else to the cause of the light. I have done badly by Harriet, by Draco, by you especially, all to save my own pathetic standing, to maintain some control over the face I show to the world. No longer. I will not serve a madman- be that the Dark Lord or Albus Dumbledore.”

Robin nodded towards the smeared coating of goo on his father’s arm. “Will that work for long?” he asked, not knowing how best to react to the outburst.

Severus sighed. “No. I can perhaps use it sparingly for a week or so before my skin sensitises to it and reacts. I hope it will give me time to think of something else. I have never resisted a summons for this long; I can only hope that the Dark Lord will grow bored.”

“He doesn’t seem the type to get bored to me,” Robin muttered. 

“No, but it is better than the alternative,” Severus pointed out. “At the moment, I just want to get hideously inebriated and forget everything. I don’t suppose you’ll let me have the firewhiskey back?”

Robin eyed him. That didn’t sound like his father; Severus would normally demand it back. “You’ve told me enough stories about your dad,” Robin said. “I don’t think a descent to alcoholism is a terribly wise coping mechanism.”

“No, perhaps not,” Severus sighed, knowing that he’d hate himself even more with a pounding headache and rotten with hangover. “I’m going to check on Harriet, and then I am going to fuck Hermione senseless and go to sleep.” The firewhiskey and prolonged pain had loosened his tongue well past his normal reserve.

Robin wrinkled his nose. “I did not need to know that,” he choked out. Severus just sneered. “Wait,” Robin asked. “You’re going to sleep with her? So soon after, well, you know?”

“After she was raped?” Severus clarified. He was nothing if not exacting, and he could not stand inclarity. Robin nodded. “Remember that I am able to tease thoughts and emotions from minds. I do not rely only on what people choose to share. Hermione currently sees her worth to me as purely sexual. It is the easiest way to reassure her of my continued affection.”

“So, you’ve already…” Robin began, not entirely sure why he was even continuing this conversation. Sick curiosity, perhaps. 

“Yes,” Severus confirmed bluntly. “Extremely gently, given that she was injured, but yes.”

“Harriet will barely let me touch her,” Robin pointed out brokenly. 

Severus grasped Robin’s shoulder with his right hand. “Time, Robin,” he suggested. “Give her time. Every person is different, and Harriet has her experience with the Dark Lord with which to contend. Hermione is well aware that she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is no slight on you, I am sure. Now, get some sleep- Harriet should sleep well. Fetch me if she is unwell.”

Robin nodded, but Severus did no more than turn wearily before he was interrupted by a sharp rap on his door. He let out  a growl of frustration, stomping to answer it with his wand clutched in his fist. 

If it was Dumbledore, he’d need it.


	63. There ain't no eaves at Bag End...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Here’s hoping Fusilli, my proofreader, hasn’t replaced this note I’ve written for you- he keeps insisting that he’ll tell you all I’ve had to flee the country on a matter of national security. I promise I haven’t!  
> Some of you have very kindly nominated me for the Fanatic fanfic award- I’m very honoured, and I’ll be even more honoured if you’d pop over and vote for me- I’m in the ‘favourite Harry Potter’ category here: (http://awards.fanaticfanfics.com/index.php/vote#favorite-harry-potter-fanfic)
> 
> Voting starts today, I believe…
> 
> And with no further ado, more Harriet!

Severus wrenched open the door, wand in casting position.

Draco and Minerva took a perfectly synchronised step back, Draco wide-eyed. “I… I’ll come back tomorrow. I just wanted to show you this,” he said, holding out a parchment to Severus. The older man snatched it with a grunt, and Draco fled back to his common room.

Minerva cocked her head to the side. “Will you send me running too, Severus?” she asked.

“Not if you are quick,” he granted sardonically, stepping back to allow Minerva access. It would appear that his plans for the evening were to be pushed back. “Perhaps you can even persuade my son-cum-drinks cabinet guardian to allow you a drink.”

Minerva gave a tight lipped smile when she came in and spotted Robin. “Hello, Robin,” she said. “It was quite a surprise to see you here yesterday. You’ve grown quite significantly since the last time we met.”

“You’re not often here during the summer,” Robin pointed out stiffly. She was quite right, he probably hadn’t seen Minerva since he was nine or ten. She spent most holidays with her numerous nieces and nephews, not haunting the halls of Hogwarts. 

“Very true,” she allowed with a smile. “You’ve grown into a very handsome young man.”

“Can we get on with this?” Severus growled. “Robin, get Minerva a drink.”

“There is no need,” Minerva assured Robin, taking a seat on the sofa. She knew she would probably not get an invitation to do so from Severus, and her knees ached. “Severus, we need to discuss what just happened.” She looked pointedly at Robin.

Severus grunted. “Go and check on Harriet,” he instructed his son. “And leave the damn firewhiskey, I won’t drink any more tonight.”

Robin carefully tucked the bottle back into the cupboard. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Severus… well, maybe. But out of sight was out of mind. He closed the door firmly and went around the corner as Minerva asked after Harriet and Hermione’s health solicitously. 

He perhaps shouldn’t have been surprised to find Harriet propped up against his bedroom door, her arms tucked around her knees, and Hermione next to her. Hermione looked abashed to have been caught, though Harriet seemed completely unrepentant. He really hoped they hadn’t heard him discussing their sex lives with Severus. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d spoken so openly, though sex was not a subject that embarrassed his father. It was a subject he’d always been completely open on. 

“Don’t make us move,” Harriet whispered, her big green eyes pleading. Robin rolled his eyes, lifting his knees high to step over her. He opened the door, reached in to pull the spare blankets from his bed, and shut the door loudly so Severus and Minerva would believe he’d gone into the room. He settled on the floor next to Harriet, tucking a blanket around her knees. He offered the second to Hermione. He was curious too, he didn’t want to miss whatever was happening in the living room. Whatever it was, it sounded important.

“Do I need to recruit another teacher for Potions?” Minerva asked. Robin had to strain to hear her.

“That depends,” Severus replied. He was making no such efforts to silence. “Are you firing me?”

“Not at all!” she exclaimed. “Just that, as you have resigned from the Order…”

Hermione gasped. Harriet poked her in the leg, raising a finger to her lips in an order for silence. Robin couldn’t blame Hermione for the reaction- his father had resigned from the Order? Why? Did that mean he was going back to the Death Eaters? Was he really going to throw himself on the mercy of a homicidal maniac wizard, after all the work he had done for the Order?

Minerva was speaking again. “What Albus said, about a student lover…” she asked quietly. “Is it true?”

“She’s of age,” Severus snapped. “Would you like me to finish out the term, or shall I pack now?”

“Is it Miss Granger?” Minerva asked.

“I will not say. I will not have her life ruined over this.”

“I’m not going to fire you, or expel her, over this, Severus, as long as she is of age and you are both consenting. Can you promise me that?” There was no audible response from Severus, but he must have nodded, considering Minerva’s reaction. “Good,” she replied. “And Severus? I am pleased for you. It has been so long… I had worried that you would never find someone, after… well, you were never the same after dear Lily died.”

All three younger people hiding out of sight in the corridor wished that they could see what was happening. Hermione chewed on her lip. There was a long silence. When Severus finally spoke, his voice was low, quiet. “I still love Lily,” he murmured. “I could never not love Lily. But when I am with Hermione, it makes the pain less. For the first time since Lily married Potter, I can feel again. Is it an insult to Lily’s memory, that I could feel that way about another woman? That I could love someone else?”

“No, Severus,” Minerva replied, just as quietly. “Lily would have wanted you to move on. And she would have thanked you for taking such good care of her child. Harry… Harriet meant the world to her.”

“I failed her,” Severus growled. “I couldn’t protect her, I couldn’t turn the Dark Lord away from his determination to eradicate them. I didn’t take care of Harriet when her parents died… I should have raised Harriet, not let Dumbledore take her to Petunia. I knew Petunia would not be kind…”

“You did what you thought best at the time,” Minerva soothed. “There is no use in this moping, Severus. You are not a one for moping, and you never have been, not since you were a terrified little first year. It’s wonderful that you have found someone you can love, Severus. I will not come between you- just, please, keep it quiet until the end of the school year?”

“That goes without saying,” Severus drawled. “What happened with Albus? Has he given up on his crackpot scheme?”

Minerva sighed deeply, so deeply that the three hidden eavesdroppers heard it perfectly. “No,” she replied. “But he needs you to put the plan into place. He can’t take her himself, after all. I think he might consider trying to persuade young Draco, though- you might want to watch him around Harriet.”

“And the pregnancy testing for the students?” Severus pressed. 

“I’m with the Headmaster on this one, Severus,” she replied. “You have such an odd view of it- the likelihood of a child being born is so very slim! Unless Ginny Weasley has inherited her mother’s fertility, the rates of pregnancy in witches are so low… and a magical child is a blessing. If there are children, they should be nurtured.”

“And what if the mother is twelve years old?” Severus snapped. 

“If she is unable to safely carry the child, her magic wouldn’t sustain it,” Minerva explained as if to a toddler. “Honestly, Severus, has it truly been so long since you took midwifery training that you have forgotten that? You were so keen on the speciality so that you could find ways of increasing wizarding fertility, I seem to recall.”

“Have you any more news to impart?” Severus growled. It sounded like he’d had enough. “If you are quite finished, then please, excuse me. I would like to get some sleep before the pain of my summoning begins anew.”

“You know where I am if you need anything,” Minerva replied with a sigh. “Would you like me to organise someone to take the girls to Diagon Alley on Monday? It may not be wise for you to leave the castle if He-who-must-not-be-named is looking for you.”

“That may be best,” Severus replied shortly. “I have a class to teach in any case. Who would you suggest?” 

There was a rustle of robes, and Robin leapt to his feet, pushing his door open. “In,” he hissed, pulling on Harriet’s arm to get her up and into his room. He beckoned Hermione in, shutting the door softly behind them.

“What’s up?” Harriet asked with a frown.

“Well, unless you want them to know we were listening…” Robin drawled with a roll of his eyes. He threw himself down onto his cushions, dropping his head back to rest on the book he’d been reading earlier. 

Harriet climbed up onto the bed and under the covers again, so it looked like she’d never been up, but Hermione stood by the door, twisting the corner of the blanket in her hands. “He said that he loves me?” she asked no one in particular, in wonderment. 

“Yeah, a right old romantic, my dad,” Robin commented with as much sarcasm as a person could muster. Listening to the conversation had only presented more questions than it had answered. He’d known that his father was close to Lily, but he’d loved her? It was loving Harriet’s mother which had stopped Severus marrying Robin’s own mother? That seemed… ironic, given the relationship between himself and Harriet. 

Harriet’s voice broke through his reverie. “I don’t really understand.”

“Nor do I,” he told her. “Hermione, will you please sit down and try to look normal?”

“What was the plan that Dumbledore had?” Harriet persisted. “The crackpot one? And if he’s being summoned, why is he still here?”

Robin sighed. He was wishing he’d brought the damned firewhiskey after all, even if it would take off half the lining of his throat. “Because by offering Draco his last name, he’s made it clear that Draco is more important to him than the Death Eaters,” Robin explained wearily. “He’d be risking his life to go back to them, so until he can think of something, he’s just trying to numb the pain of the summoning.”

“How do you know?” Hermione snapped. “Why would he tell you?”

“Erm, because I’m his son?” Robin replied, sitting up and rubbing at his temples. 

“But you’re a squib. Why should you know?”

“Hermione!” Harriet cried. 

Robin held up his hand. Slowly, he got to his feet, stepping across the room until he was only a foot from Hermione. “I lack magical power. That does not make me stupid, or untrustworthy. I would have thought you would understand that- I believed you to be muggleborn?”

Hermione just gawped, as if she’d not considered this. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking.”

Robin nodded. “I can gather that,” he replied stonily. “I am still part of this world, no matter if my magic is nothing more than a spark, or I’m as powerful as Merlin. I’m involved in this war, because of my father’s position, and because of Harriet’s.”

Severus pushed the door open. “Ah, Hermione, there you are,” he said curtly. “It’s time for bed.”

“Is… is everything okay?” Hermione asked, her gaze dropping to her toes. 

“There is nothing you need be concerned about,” Severus growled. “Come.”

Hermione glanced up at Harriet, and her gaze flickered to Robin. “G’night,” she muttered, letting Severus place a hand in the small of her back to guide her out. The door shut softly behind them.

“Hermione’s so different when she’s with him,” Harriet said softly. 

Robin sighed and settled himself on the foot of the bed, his back braced against one of the posts so he could face Harriet, propped up in the pillows. “How so?” he asked. 

Harriet nibbled at her lower lip, drawing the blankets up around herself. “She’s usually so confident, you know? Always in control of everything. She doesn’t just do what you tell her- she’ll even answer back to teachers if she thinks they’re wrong- well, not in potions, perhaps. No one talks back in potions.”

Robin quirked one side of his mouth up into something resembling a grin. “There you go. Talking back to my dad is not something many people do, if they wish to keep their heads.”

“Yeah,” Harriet replied with a yawn.

“Go to sleep, kitten,” Robin suggested. “This can wait. It can all wait until you’re better.”

“Robin?” she asked shyly, snuggling down into the blankets.

“Mm?”

“Will you cuddle me?” she asked. 

He couldn’t help the slow, slightly goofy grin spreading across his face. “Of course. Anything you want, kitten.” He climbed off the bed to dig out a pair of pyjamas- he didn’t really wear them around Harriet any more, but he didn’t think she was quite ready for them to go back to normal… well, what normal had been. He wasn’t sure what normal really was any more, or if it would ever be the same where Harriet was concerned. He changed as quickly as he could, turning away from her. He didn’t want to frighten her, or have her think he was in some way coming onto her. He was still slightly uncomfortable knowing that his father had expected Hermione to continue relations so soon… as if she was somehow forced, coerced, pressed beyond her comfort. Tying the drawstring of the trousers tight, Robin eased beneath the covers on ‘his’ side of the bed.

Harriet was on her side, facing away from him, but she shuffled back until she was wedged against him, cradled in the parenthesis of his body. He slowly wrapped an arm around her waist, cradling her to him. She was stiff, tense. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured into her hair. “Not now, not ever, if you don’t want to. I understand if you just want your own space, Harriet.”

She was silent for a long time. “I tried to think about you,” she whispered eventually. “I tried to think about you holding me like this, think about how you kiss my forehead, or when you read to me. But I couldn’t. All I could do was try to not think about what was going to happen. He touched me… Voldemort, he touched me, and it was so awful, and I knew he’d be doing more than touch me soon enough, but I couldn’t think about it. I threw up when I realised what was happening, and I’d just kind of thought that I’d be with you, that I’d have a normal life. But I don’t get normal. Anything weird, anything bad that could happen… it happens to me. Except you. But I still can’t see why you want to be with me, not after he-” she shivered, and Robin stroked her hand, “-after he touched me. After Zabini or Crabbe… well, I’m kind of used goods. Your dad even said it once- no one really expects a girl to be a virgin, but a girl with a kid? No one wants that.” She fell silent again, curling into herself so the jut of her hipbones dug into his. 

“You don’t have a kid, though,” he reminded her gently. “Harriet… if you had wanted it, and if you had wanted me, I’d have raised it as my own, no matter if it was mine or not.”

Harriet snorted. “You wouldn’t have wanted a Death Eater’s kid.”

“I am a Death Eater’s kid. But then, how do you dare to tell me that I’m my father’s son?”

“Huh?” Harriet asked, confused. “You are Severus’ son.”

He sighed. “Yeah, love. It’s a quotation, from a song. It basically means that just because you parents are something, you don’t have to follow in their footsteps.”

“Oh,” she replied, her brain fogging a little in the warmth of Robin’s bed. “I don’t know that song. Is it good?”

“I think so. I don’t know if you would,” he told her.

She didn’t reply, and soon, her breath deepened in sleep. Robin held her, wondering how such an awful thing had happened to her. Maybe she was right, maybe bad luck did follow her. After all, hadn’t Minerva said that pregnancy in witches was rare? And then Harriet got pregnant after only a week off contraceptive potions. It seemed too much bad luck. 

He sighed and pulled her tighter to him, letting her breath lull his thoughts. He knew that if he had any choice, and chance at all in the matter, he would protect her. He had to do everything he could for her, because she’d already had enough bad luck to last a lifetime. 


	64. From the ashes.

Harriet dithered at her doorway. She hadn’t expected to be so nervous about leaving her room; the castle had never been scary to her before. She wished she’d agreed with Hermione’s plan to go to breakfast together, but it had seemed silly at the time for Hermione to come to Harriet’s room first. The head girl had gone back to her own quarters on Sunday morning, and even Harriet had had a few hours alone trying to catch up on some reading. But now it was Monday morning, and they were to go to breakfast, then meet Hagrid in the head’s office to floo to Diagon alley- the Weasley twins were offering the floo in their shop for the purpose. 

Harriet took a breath, deciding that getting to breakfast late would just cause more stares. She had her school robes buttoned on over her jeans and jumper, hoping to avoid anyone noticing that she wasn't in her school uniform. Nervously, she checked that she had everything she needed: without her wand, she wouldn’t be able to get back into her quarters without finding Severus and getting him to let her use his floo. She pushed out through her door, the portrait closing softly behind her. 

The gentle chatter of breakfast could be heard as she slipped in through the doors of the great hall- quieter than other meals, but by no means monastic. Harriet gave Neville a weak smile as she slipped into a place next to him at the head of the table, usually populated by seventh-years. Dean waved at her from across the table, his mouth stuffed with scrambled egg. “Alright?” he asked, still with remnants of egg in his mouth. 

“Alright,” Harriet agreed with a little smile, reaching for the toast. 

“Hey, where were you?” Seamus asked.

Harriet shrugged. “Sorting out stuff. Really boring- my muggle relatives found out about my wizarding inheritance, and since you don’t come of age until eighteen in the muggle world, they were trying to get their greedy mitts on it. Think it’s mostly sorted now, but they managed to get hold of my wand and snap it. I’ve got to go to Diagon Alley to get a new one today. Hope I’ll be back in lessons tomorrow.”

Seamus made a face at that- losing a wand was no joke. For a start, they were expensive, and a wand became attuned to its bearer. Training a new one took time. “I heard that Ollivander came back,” he whispered. “Just strolled up to his shop and went up to his little flat like he hadn’t been gone for months.”

Harriet just made an interested noise. “Where’s the marmalade?” she asked. Neville passed it over.

“Granger was away too,” Dean pointed out. “D’you know where she was?”

“Yeah, she was helping me,” Harriet replied. “You know, since she’s going into wizarding law, and she’s a muggle-born and all.”

Both Seamus and Dean nodded sagely and turned back to their breakfasts as Ron plonked himself next to Harriet, Imogen tucking herself in rather more gracefully beside him. “Where’s ‘Mione?” he asked. 

“Dunno,” Harriet replied, trying to sound nonchalant. She’d been hoping that Hermione would already be there, and she was feeling rather alone and vulnerable surrounded by people who had no idea what had happened. She glanced up to the head table, and the sight of Severus scowling into his tea reassured her somewhat. He’d never allow a mob to form at breakfast.

The post arrived at the same time as Hermione; she slid into a seat just in time to receive the  _ Prophet _ from the owl. “Morning,” she greeted. Unlike Harriet, she was open about the fact that she wasn’t in her school uniform, her lilac cardigan standing out amongst the sea of black. She unfolded her paper with a snap.

An owl swooped down to Harriet to drop a thick parchment envelope at her place. She reached for the letter even as the owl wheeled away, not even waiting for a bit of toast as a treat. She stared down at the address, the knot of fear in her stomach tightening hard. She was pretty sure that it must be from the Wizarding colleges. Who else could possibly be writing to her? It wasn’t like she really knew many people in the wizarding world- and a letter from Mrs. Weasley would never arrive on such fancy paper. 

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, peering over at the letter clutched tightly in Harriet’s hands.

“Erm, dunno,” Harriet hedged. 

“Well, open it then,” Hermione retorted with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not going to bite you.”

Harriet nodded stiffly, but did nothing more than stare down at the letter in her hands. She could feel more eyes on her now, and her face felt hot. She inwardly cursed Hermione for drawing attention to the letter. What was she going to do? What could she do with her life if she didn’t get into the colleges? A few days ago, she’d been sure that her life was over, and now she felt frozen, unable to even contemplate the future. 

With a long-suffering sigh, Hermione reached over to pluck the letter from Harriet’s unresisting fingers. “Do you want me to tell you?” she asked. 

“Tell me what?” Harriet mumbled to her lap.

“Tell you what it says!” Hermione snapped.

Harriet shrugged. With a tut of frustration, Hermione reached for a clean butter knife, using it to break the seal. A small sheaf of paper fell out of the envelope, and there were a few seconds of silence as her eyes darted across the creamy parchment. 

“Dear Miss Potter,” she began. “My thanks to you for taking the time to attend an interview with me some weeks ago at Alizon Hall. I am now able to tell you that we have made our selections of students for September’s intake…”

Hermione’s voice seemed to fade away, leaving Harriet with pulsing silence in her ears, the blood thumping in her head. She strained to hear Hermione again. “...I have enclosed a list of suitable tutors, although you are of course free to engage your own. Please reply no later than the first of…”

“What?” Harriet burst out. “Sorry… I wasn’t… wasn’t listening. What was that?”

“Ugh!” Hermione huffed. She thrust the letter back at Harriet. “The Wizarding colleges- you got in, provisional on you taking an OWL in Ancient Runes over the summer, and achieving an O in your Defence and one other NEWT.”

“I got in?” Harriet said dazedly, looking down at the parchment. The words seemed to jump in front of her… ‘admired your wandwork’... ‘impressed by your plans for the future’... she looked up, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “I got in!”

“Well, don’t count your chickens,” Hermione sniffed, reaching for the milk. “You still need to do that OWL, and get an O in your NEWT…”

“Give over, ‘Mione!” Ron exclaimed. “Course she’ll get high enough marks. Be happy for her- she’s just got into one of the best wizarding schools in the world!” Harriet looked up, mildly surprised. Ron had changed his tune from not having heard of the colleges, and berating them for not singing the praises of Hogwarts. She smiled weakly at him in thanks, and he winked at her, looking so much like Charlie for a moment that she raised her eyebrow in surprise. She looked down again, rereading her letter. Not only had she got in, Tristan praised her duelling skills, and said that he was impressed that she was so grounded given her famous history. It sounded like he wanted her in spite of her dealings with Voldemort, and not because of them. Her cheeks felt funny from grinning, but she couldn’t help it. 

“Come on,” Hermione said. “McGonagall’s just left. We need to go.” She stood, climbing over the bench again. 

“Oh… yeah, okay,” Harriet replied, folding the letter and tucking it into the back pocket of her robes. She swung her legs over the bench, narrowly avoiding Neville.

He smiled benignly at her. “Well done,” he said sincerely. 

“Thanks,” she smiled back, standing a bit stiffly. She still didn’t feel a hundred percent, though she wasn’t really bleeding anymore, and was back on blood replenishers for a bit. Seamus gave her a grin and a  thumbs up to convey his congratulations. Hermione turned and flounced away. 

Ron caught Harriet’s wrist as she walked past. He tugged it, pulling her down so he could whisper in her ear. “She’s just jealous that you did well,” he informed Harriet. “You know Hermione.”

“She’ll come round,” Imogen added. “I’m sure you must be very pleased. Maybe Hermione could help you study for Ancient Runes?”

“She might like that…” Harriet agreed. Imogen really was quite astute. Harriet liked her more  and more as time went on- and she seemed to have a calming influence on Ron. Sometimes he thought before he spoke now. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” she suggested to Ron.

“Later,” he agreed. 

Hermione was tapping her foot impatiently outside the hall. “You ready?” she asked shortly. “Only Professor Snape said to be in the head’s office by nine, and it’s ten to now…”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Harried replied. She’d tucked her purse into the pockets of her robes, along with her Gringotts key, just in case. Hermione turned to climb the stairs to the head’s office. “Hey, Hermione,” Harriet called, trotting behind her. “You know how I have to do Ancient Runes? Would you, maybe, help me? Or at least help me find a teacher?”

“I suppose I could help…” Hermione agreed. “It’s a tough subject though, you’re really going to have to put the work in! You only have six months until the OWL second sitting, it’s in August, you know…”

Harriet didn’t know, but she wisely kept her peace on that one. “Thanks, Hermione. I’ll work really hard, I promise.”

“You’d better,” she replied, but she sounded much less snippy. “Tunnock’s Teacakes,” she told the gargoyle guarding the spiral stairs firmly. It sprang to the side with a hiss of stone, and the stairs began to move.  Harriet followed her up the familiar staircase. 

Professor McGonagall was already there, sitting behind her desk. “Good morning,” she said with a tight little smile. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you, Professor,” Hermione replied primly. “And you?”

“Tolerable, thank you, Miss Granger,” she said. “Has Professor Snape been looking after you? Are you, ahem, recovered from your injuries?”

“We’re much better, thank you,” Hermione replied. Harriet rolled her eyes. Hermione was alway so prim and proper around teachers… except Severus, she supposed. 

They were saved from any further excruciating small talk by the bumbling arrival of Hagrid as he ducked his way through the door, still somehow managing to crack his head off the lintel. “Ow!” he exclaimed. “Sorry, Professor…” He rubbed at his head ruefully. Harriet grinned to see her big friend.

“Hi, Hagrid.”

He smiled down at her, then opened his arms. She jumped at him, turning her face away from his scratchy beard as he hugged her. “Y’alright, Harriet?” he asked gruffly. “I heard wha’ happened, like… well, a bi’ of it. Thank Merlin Professor Snape got y’ out, all three of you.”

“Yeah,” Harriet said with a little smile, stepping back when the half-giant released his hold. “Are you taking us to Diagon Alley?”

Hagrid puffed out his chest with pride. “Tha’ I am,” he replied. “I took yer t’ get your firs’ wand, and I’m taking yer for this one too.”

Harriet jumped when a hand touched her shoulder, a shuddering breath leaving her body. “I apologise. I did not intend to startle you,” Severus murmured silkily. “I only wished to ensure that you had everything necessary for your trip.”

“Yeah, think so,” Harriet replied, jingling her robes to demonstrate the presence of her purse by the clink of the coins. 

Severus turned to face Hermione, one hand still resting lightly on Harriet’s shoulder. “Hermione?” he asked. “Remember, you are not there to visit the bookshops.”

Harriet was distracted by Fawkes, who had been sitting on his perch. He was in a perfect state, at the very prime of his life cycle, and when he spread his wings, the light caught them, almost making it look like he was on fire, flames racing along the oil-on-water sheen of his feathers. Harriet smiled as Fawkes beat his wings once, lifting himself from the perch, and glided across the expanse of the desk towards her. Hesitantly, she held out her arm towards him, surprised when he actually landed on it. She breathed out a reverent gasp as talons grasped at her arm, pressing through the heavy fabric of her robes. He reached out his head and began preening his curved beak through her hair. She realised that everyone else had fallen silent, watching.

“Ow!” she exclaimed. Fawkes took to the air again, flapping back to his perch with a couple of coal-black strands of hair clutched in his beak. “That hurt,” she said, rubbing at her head. “What’d you do that for?”

Fawkes just gave a low trill, not up to human speech. Severus plucked something from her hair, offering it to her. “At least he left you something in return,” he commented dryly as Harriet took the crimson feather by the shaft. As she twirled it, it caught the light, sending skittering gold flecks across the silky vane. “That would make an eye- catching quill.”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed quietly, tucking the feather into her pocket. “Oh!” she cried, remembering, as her fingers brushed the parchment. “I got a letter from the Wizarding colleges this morning. They’ll give me a place as long as I get two O’s in my NEWTs… and take an OWL in Ancient Runes.”

“Well done, Potter!” Minerva said with delight. “I admit, I wasn’t holding out much hope… not with the history we have with the colleges…”

“History?” Hermione asked, puzzled.

Minerva nodded. “Why, yes… their principal, Cyrus Clearbright, has had some disagreements with Albus over the years. They haven’t taken a student from Hogwarts for almost fifty years. Professor Flitwick was one of the last, I seem to recall…” She nodded quietly to herself for a moment, lost in thought. “Never mind. Well done, Harriet. I am delighted. We shall have to plan how to get you sitting that OWL, but for now, you will have to be on your way. You’re expected. Now, Mrs. Weasley should be there to meet you with Ginny. Ginny will come return here with you. I expect you on your best behaviour: this excursion is during school hours, remember.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione and Harriet chorused. She offered them each the pot of floo powder in turn, and Hagrid took a handful.

“Hate going by floo,” he grumbled. “Allus think I’m going t’ get stuck.” Harriet couldn’t help but agree with him. She wasn’t sure how he got through either. She tossed her floo powder into the fire.

The Weasley twins were still having breakfast when she arrived, the heap of bacon and sausages on each of their plates suggesting that their mother had cooked. Harriet never quite understood why the entire Weasley family was not perfectly spherical, given how Mrs Weasley liked to feed people. “Harriet!” she cried in delight. “There’s plenty of bacon, would you like a sandwich? I can do you an egg too…”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she protested. “I’ve just had breakfast.”

“I’ll have a sarnie if yer offerin’, Molly,” Hagrid said, dusting off the soot from the floo. Molly, pleased to have someone to feed, set about buttering a roll and filling it with bacon. 

“Well, you two girls look a bit better than you did when I saw you last,” Mrs. Weasley allowed. “Such a to do! I cannot understand why I couldn’t bring you home to recuperate. Really! As of you’d be better off down in the dungeons with Snape. What was Minerva thinking?”

“We were fine,” Harriet said wearily. “Really.”

Mrs Weasley huffed. “Well, I can’t see that it wa proper at all. Remus said that Snape’s your godfather, Harriet? I really can’t see how that is.”

Harriet gritted her teeth, and reminded herself that a year ago, she’d have been horrified at the idea too. “He was there when my Mum had me,” she explained shortly. “He helped her perform the spell that changed me into a boy.”

Mrs. Weasley sniffed disdainfully, showing what she thought of the entire situation. “I don’t know what Lily was thinking,” she snipped. “Having that man there whilst she was giving birth. I mistrust a man who is interested in the workings of childbirth; it’s always been women’s work. I daresay he talked her into all this intrigue and cloak and dagger nonsense, hiding what you are.” Harriet was speechless, unable to formulate a reasonable response to that. Yes, Severus was a dour, sarcastic wizard, but he’d been  _ kind _ to her! He’d accepted her!

George slammed down his fork. “Will you listen to yourself, woman?” he snapped. “If she says she’s happy with Snape, then she’s happy! I don’t see how, but to each their own.”

Mrs. Weasley gasped. “Well, I…” She never finished her sentence, both twins now giving her hard glares. She subsided, turning back to the counter, and no more was said on the subject.

“What’s Ollivander expecting us?” Hermione asked with forced joviality, taking a seat next to Ginny. Harriet couldn’t help but notice that Mrs. Weasley hadn’t offered Hermione breakfast.

“In ten minutes,” Ginny replied quietly, her eyes on the clock. Harriet wondered how she’d been. Hermione had been a massive comfort over the past few days: having someone who knew what it was like had made her feel in some way connected to the world. Even though she’d felt a lot better after she’d talked about it with Robin, it still felt like she was in a bubble, and he was on the other side. Only Hermione seemed to be able to get into her bubble, to understand. Ginny had been alone, with Mrs. Weasley fussing over her, and no distractions from her own mind. It seemed almost cruel. 

“Well, now,” Hagrid said, patting at his curly beard with a napkin to blot off some of the bacon grease. “I suppose we had better get goin’. Many thanks for the sandwich, Molly.”

“You sure you don’t need me along?” Molly fretted. 

“We’ll be fine. Jus’ got to get their wands and head back to the school. Should be a right quick job,” Hagrid soothed. 

And so, after Mrs. Weasley had checked that Ginny had her ten galleons safely in her purse to cover the cost of the wand (Harriet hated to think what they might be going without to replace the wand), they set off, letting themselves out of the side entrance to the joke shop. Hagrid kept them close as he herded them down the street, just starting to fill with shoppers. He lifted a hand to Tom the barman from the Leaky Cauldron, sweeping his front step, and hustled his three charges on, clearly taking his instructions quite seriously. 

He knocked at the glass-panelled door of Ollivander’s shop, the little panes rattling in their housing. He looked quite nervous, and had just raised his ham-sized fist to knock again when the curtain in the window twitched, and Ollivander’s lined face peered out. The bolts on the door shot back, and the elderly wandmaker ushered them in, shutting the door hastily behind them.

The shop was little different to the first time Harriet had been here. It smelt a little more musty, perhaps, but the floor had been swept and the counter polished and buffed to gleaming cleanliness. Ollivander himself had not fared so well. She’d not really noticed the state he was in when leaving Malfoy Manor.

He’d been a thin whippet of a man before, greying and wrinkled, but now he was almost skeletal, the skin pulled tight across his bones in some places and loose and drooping in others. His eyes looked almost dusty, like there was a thin film across them, and he looked weak. “Now then,” he breathed ethereally. “Shall we see what we can find you young ladies?” He pointed at Hermione. “You first, I think. Vine and dragon, wasn’t it? Yes… yes, a good all-round wand. I do hate to see a good wand spoilt…” he shook his head sadly. “Now then…” He wandered along the rows of narrow wand boxes, muttering to himself.

“How about this?” he asked, pulling a box down. He blew the film of dust from across it. “Vine and unicorn… not so powerful, perhaps, but nice and flexible.” He opened the box and offered it to Hermione. She reached out her wand hand, taking the slender wand. She wrapped her fingers around it, but quickly shook her head, dropping it again.

“I don’t feel it,” she murmured quietly. Ollivander nodded sagely, and replaced the wand, fetching another.

“How about this one,” he suggested in a voice not much above a hoarse whisper. “An unusual wand this one- a full thirteen inches, acacia and dragon, nice for transfigurations…” Hermione took it, but shook her head again. Ollivander cocked his head to the side. “No, perhaps not… there is something different about you, a touch of shadow, a steely core… perhaps, yes… maybe…” He whipped out his tape measure, winding it around her shoulders, along her arm, about her head. He tucked it into a pocket again, still watching Hermione intently. She looked straight back at him, apparently undeterred by his oddness.

He vanished into his stacks again, emerging with a yellowing box. “How about this?”

Hermione picked it up. She smiled, swishing the wand and sending a shower of silvery sparks over them. Ollivander nodded. “Yes, there we go. Walnut and dragon heartstring, twelve and a half inches. You mind that wand now: it can do great things, and also terrible things. Keep it to the light, Miss Granger. You belong in the sunshine, not in the shadow.”

He beckoned Ginny forward with a crooked finger. “Cedar and unicorn, nine and three quarter inches, quite rigid,” he intoned. Harriet tensed with the electric shiver that ran down her back; Ollivander was, if possible, more eerie than ever. His dimming eyes seemed to look right through them. “I have a similar wand, just a touch longer, a little more flexible, from the same tree. Let us see if it will like you.” He clambered up a ladder with surprising agility for an old man who’d spent months in a cellar at Lucius Malfoy’s mercy, his spindly fingers pulling out a yellowed box.

Ginny grinned with relief to feel a wand in her fingers again, feel the magic tingle up her arm. “ _ Scourgify _ ,” she cast, swishing the wand at the dusty curtains. They snapped into regimented order, and the fluffy, dusty coating vanished, leaving them worn but clean. Ollivander clapped his hands together once in delight. “I have not lost my touch,” he whispered. 

There was only Harriet left to face his inspection. At the current rate, they would be out of the shop in five minutes flat. “And how could I forget you?” Ollivander murmured. “Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple and springy.” He sighed. “As you know, the only brother to your wand is spoken for. But then, you have changed quite dramatically since we first met.” He pulled out his tape measure, brushing long, pale fingers down her right arm to pick up her hand. 

Harriet leapt backwards, the cold, dragging touch reminding her so strongly of standing in Lucius Malfoy’s study, Voldemort handling her as if she were a horse to be bought. She cut off a strangled cry before it could become a scream, and backed against the wall, trembling.

“Perhaps not, then,” Ollivander muttered darkly. “No matter. We shall indulge ourselves in the game.” He turned and wandered back into his stacks of shelving, pulling down first one box, then another, then replacing one with a mutter. 

Hermione hesitantly reached out to Harriet. “Are you okay?” She asked, her voice trembling.

Harriet gulped and nodded. “It just… it felt like… like  _ he _ was touching me again.”

Hermione nodded sympathetically. Ginny squeezed Harriet’s shoulder in solidarity. Ollivander returned with three wand boxes. “Ash and dragon,” he supplied as Harriet picked up the wand. 

It wasn’t like the first time. She knew what she was looking for. She knew why Hermione had rejected the first wands: this one just felt alien in her hands. She shook her head, putting it back in the box. Ollivander offered the second instead. “Acacia and unicorn,” he said, but snatched it from her before she could reject it. 

The black walnut and dragon wand felt like a stick in her hands, with no answering call from her magic. Ollivander eventually stopped telling her what he was giving her to try, thrusting wands into her hands and pulling half of them away just as quickly. Ginny had slumped into the chair, and Hagrid looked like he might fall asleep. Harriet wanted to cry. Hermione and Ginny had been so easy. It had taken a long time to find her a wand the first time, but this was getting ridiculous. 

She produced sparks with what felt like about the sixtieth wand she had tried, but Ollivander snatched it back anyway. He looked down at it sadly. “Fir and phoenix,” he intoned. “It seems you have an affinity for phoenix, Miss Potter… Alas, I keep so few, it is such a rare core…” He trotted off again.

Hermione nudged Harriet sharply in the ribs. “The feather,” she muttered. 

“Huh?”

“The feather. Maybe Fawkes gave it to you for a reason,” she hissed. 

Harriet frowned, her hand creeping into the folds of her robes to search out the pocket. Her fingers brushed against the cool silkiness of the feather. Ollivander returned, pressing another wand into her hands. She dropped it as soon as she picked it up. It had sent a jolt up her arm, a shock of darkness. She shook her arm out. 

“Perhaps not,” Ollivander sighed.

“Mr. Ollivander?” she asked hesitantly. “How long does it take to make a wand?”

He blinked at her owlishly. “The selection of materials takes weeks,” he told her softly. “Finding the tree, treating the wood… gathering the core…”

“What if you already had some of the materials?” Harriet asked. She pulled the feather out of her pocket, holding it out on the flat of her palm. 

Ollivander stroked it with one knobbly finger. “Is this...?”

“It’s from Fawkes,” Harriet explained. “He landed on me this morning, and he shed this.”

Ollivanders eyes seemed to brighten. “Phoenixes do not give gifts,” he mused. “What is the cost of this feather?” He didn’t seem to be expecting an answer.

“Well, I don’t know about a gift,” Harriet groused. “He yanked out a beakful of my hair first.”

Ollivander lit up. “Then it is bought and paid for,” he enthused. “It is perfect… the same wand, the very same… but then…” He dropped his head to his chest, humming a little to himself. “Perhaps it is too perfect. Do you really want this wand? It will connect you to He-who-must-not-be-named just as surely as your former wand.”

Harriet hadn’t thought of that. But then, her wand had protected her against Voldemort, hadn’t it? If it hadn’t been for  _ Priori Incantatem _ , she’d have been dead in the graveyard at the end of the Triwizard. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I want it.”

Ollivander sighed. “Very well. But remember, Miss Potter, that it was your choice to maintain this connection. I need an hour… come back in an hour. I shall have your wand for you.”

“Professor McGonagall said I was to bring them right back,” Hagrid grumbled. 

Ollivander turned on him. “Would you deny her a wand?” he breathed. “An hour… that is all. In one hour, we shall see if I can make a worthy wand.”

Hagrid grumbled, but eventually acquiesced. “How much do we owe you, Mr. Ollivander?” Hermione asked, pulling out her purse. 

“Nothing, my dear,” Ollivander breathed. “I cannot take payment for this: it is I who is repaying the favour. If not for you girls, I would still be languishing in the dungeons.”

“That was Professor Snape, not us,” Hermione insisted, but Ollivander would hear none of it. He ushered them out, refusing any further mention of payment. He even became quite agitated when Hermione tried to press a few galleons into his hands, snapping the door closed in their faces. Hermione sighed, faced with the blank expanse of wood and glass. “Well,” she sighed. “Since we’re here, I wouldn’t mind a look in Flourish and Blotts.”

“You never wouldn’t,” Harriet sighed. 

They passed half an hour in the bookshop before Hagrid called in through the doorway for them to hurry up. Hermione appeared bright cheeked from the back of the shop, three books clutched against her chest, and one dangling from her fingertips. She dropped the latter on the stack of Defence texts on the table Harriet was perusing. “Runes workbook,” she explained shortly, turning to the till to pay for her finds. 

Harriet sighed, picking up the thin volume and flicking through it. She supposed she should buy it… She had no idea which books she’d even need to start Runes. She reluctantly followed Hermione to the till. 

Hagrid was more interested in a few minutes in Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Ginny had to be dragged away when it was time for them to return to Ollivander’s. This time, he opened the door before Hagrid could even think about knocking, a thin smile spread across his face. “Come in, come in…” he grinned, a polishing cloth held between his bony fingertips. 

Once they were all inside, he carefully picked up a wand from the countertop. He offered it to Harriet within the cloth.

She smiled as soon as her fingers brushed the wood. A warmth tingled through them, a blessed familiarity. She let out a sigh of relief. She felt a little more like a complete person. She examined the wand minutely. It was smoother than her last, the wood buttery, and just a shade darker. It had an odd spirally grain, twirling up to the narrow point. “Holly and phoenix, ten and three quarter inches,” Ollivander explained quietly. “Give it a wave, then.”

Her sparkles were more numerous than Hermione’s. 


	65. Counselling

Returned to the school, with their wands in hand, all three girls felt more comfortable. None of them had quite appreciated just how powerless, how utterly useless they’d felt without their wands, even after their rescue. It had been awful, but none of them has fully appreciated how naked they had felt without the protection of that little stick of wood. Harriet never wanted to be without her wand again. She couldn’t understand how she’d never felt its absence in the first eleven years of her life, but she supposed that you couldn’t miss something you’d never had in the first place.

Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be seen upon their return to her office; nor, thank goodness, was Professor Dumbledore. Harriet couldn’t help feeling a bubble of anger rise in her chest when she thought of him now- he had been planning to leave them in Malfoy Manor even when a chance for their rescue emerged, just leave them until they could mount an Order mission.

Hagrid shuffled his feet. “Well, now yer all back safe an’ sound, I’d better be gettin’ on,” he said. “Come an’ visit me soon, eh? I’ll bake summut nice for you.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harriet and Hermione chorused, hoping that Fang would eat all traces of whatever the baking could be. “We’ll try to come down next weekend, okay?” Harriet suggested, and Hagrid beamed. She felt guilty for neglecting him lately. He clapped her on the shoulder in delight, narrowly missing sending her flying face first onto the floor. Hagrid always forgot his own strength. He grinned sheepishly and left.

It had taken such a long time to get their wands that there was less than half an hour until lunchtime. Harriet looked down at her watch. “I’m going to put my stuff back in my room,” she informed the other two. “Wanna come?”

“I… am I allowed?” Ginny asked quietly.

Harriet slapped her on the back, rather more gently than Hagrid had managed. “Course you can, Gin,” she said. “If you want to, that is?”

Ginny nibbled at her lower lip. “I’ve been a complete berk,” she said, looking up. “I feel really rubbish about how I treated you. It wasn’t your fault, what happened, and I suppose it’s been pretty shit for you too. I’m just sorry that it took such an awful thing to make me see that I should be grateful for what I have.”

“I know,” Harriet replied with a tiny smile. “Friends?”

“Friends,” Ginny agreed, returning the grin.

“Then come and see where I live,” Harriet suggested. She knew that perhaps she should blame Ginny more for everything that had happened, but it seemed a bit pointless, to be honest. Holding a grudge wouldn’t improve anything now. Better by far to try to pretend that the last few months had never happened, and not embarrass Ginny. They’d all been through enough without creating more grudges. Harriet decided that she could be the bigger person.

She was a little nervous that perhaps her door wouldn’t let her in with a different wand. What if it affected her magical signature, somehow? Her fears were unfounded, however. It opened just as it always had, and she couldn’t help a very small sigh of relief. She stepped in, holding the door for Hermione and Ginny. Ginny let out a low whistle of approval. “Nice room, Potter,” she said. Hermione made a beeline for the loo.

“Thanks,” Harriet said, dropping the book onto her desk and bending to tuck her purse into her wardrobe.

“How long have you been with Robin?”

Harriet turned sharply, almost losing her balance. “What?” she snapped.

Ginny held out a piece of lined paper. “This was on your bed,” she explained. “I can’t believe you’re with a squib though… how could it ever work?”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Harriet snapped, snatching the paper back off Ginny. “Why does it even matter if he’s a squib, anyway? Wizards marry muggles all the time.”

Ginny cocked her head to the side. “Not really,” she replied. “It’s pretty rare. Well, it’s pretty rare for it to work out. Because of the Statute of Secrecy, we’re not allowed to tell muggles about magic until we’re actually married… and it’s hardly a great start for a marriage, anyway, is it? ‘Hey, thanks for marrying me, and by the way, I have magical powers that you didn’t know existed.Most half-bloods have a muggleborn parent, like you. ”

“Seamus and Dean are both half-muggle,” Harriet pointed out.

“And Dean’s dad left just after he was born, never to be heard from again, and Seamus’s parents got divorced three years ago because his dad couldn’t hack it. Severus’ dad was a muggle, and he hated any trace of magic. He snapped his wife’s wand, and only let Severus come to Hogwarts to get him away, because he hated the sight of him- all because of magic.” Harriet hadn’t even noticed Hermione come back, but there she was, leaning against the door jamb between the bathroom and the bedroom, her voice quiet and even.

“But Robin already knows about magic,” Harriet insisted. “It’s not the same.”

Hermione shrugged. “How long until he gets jealous, though?” she questioned quietly.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Harriet said, looking down at her note. He hadn’t folded it, probably not expecting her to bring anyone back to her room: or not expecting anyone else to be so rude as to read it. ‘ _Hope everything went well, kitten,’_ it read. _I’ll see you tonight- I’ll pop by about ten? Robin.’_ She couldn’t help a little smile as she crossed to the desk and tucked the note beside the Transfigurations essay she’d been scratching her head over ever since her return to Hogwarts- _Consider the ethics of Transfigurations in the financial marketplace._ So far, she had decided that the goblins at Gringotts would never be fooled by transfigured currency or valuables, but she was having rather more issues with the idea of selling transfigured goods. “Shall we go to lunch?” she suggested.

Hermione looked pointedly at her watch, but they went anyway. Unsurprisingly, they were the first to the great hall. The space seemed cavernous when so empty, and the three girls crept to their seats at the table, feeling quite self-conscious. “I don’t think I’ve ever been the first to arrive for a meal before,” Ginny whispered, as if she was frightened to speak at a normal volume.

In time, of course, people began drifting in, and the food popped up onto the tables in due course. At least being there early meant getting first choice of everything. The hall was at least half full when someone quite unexpected perched on the edge of the bench beside Ginny. “How did the shopping expedition go?” Lupin asked with a smile.

“Good,” Harriet enthused, pulling out her wand to show him. “It’s almost identical to my last one.”

Lupin eyed the gleaming wood appreciatively. “I’m pleased,” he replied. “It’s good that you all have a wand at your disposal again. Now, I wonder if the three of your would be so good as to come by to see me this evening, after dinner in my office, perhaps? Nothing to worry about, I’d just like to see how you’re getting on.”

They nodded in agreement, though Harriet was somewhat reluctant. She didn’t really want teachers butting in. It had happened, it was over, and she would rather just try to get on with life. There had been no endless concern and dissection when she’d retrieved the Philosopher's Stone, or come back from the chamber, or even at the end of the Triwizard, when she perhaps could have done with it most. Then again, all those events were at the end of the school year, and she’d just been packed back off to the Dursleys, forgotten for two months as she languished in the smallest bedroom. Maybe if all those events had happened not so very long after New Year, there would have been the same kind of reaction. Or perhaps it had been Dumbledore’s laissez faire attitude to her misadventures that had prevented follow up. He certainly seemed content to forget her in this one.

Having been excused from lessons, all three girls took the afternoon to try to catch up on what they had missed, spending a few quiet hours in the library, once they had convinced Madam Pince that they were allowed. Harriet took her new Ancient Runes book, and set about trying to learn the Elder Futhark alphabet. She picked at her dinner, nervous about what Lupin might ask them, and somehow found herself outside his office door with Hermione and Ginny without really remembering walking up from the great hall. Hermione raised her hand to knock.

Lupin didn’t answer the door, calling instead for them to enter. He was already settled by the fireside and waved them to a seat. “How are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Harriet and Ginny shrugged grumpily, but Hermione was all smiles and answers. “I think we’re all doing as well as you’d expect,” she chirped. “I’m sure it will take time, but…”

Professor Lupin nodded and stood, fetching four cups and filling them with tea. “Yes, quite,” he agreed mildly, settling himself down again after distributing the tea. “I can only imagine that the whole experience must have been highly traumatic for you. I’ve got in contact with a counsellor, who might be able to help you by talking about it, though. She normally practices in the Wizarding district in Edinburgh, but she’s agreed to come up to the school to have meetings with each of you for as long as necessary. I’ve asked if she would come by this evening for a little chat with each of you in turn, just for a few minutes, so you can decide how you’d like to proceed.”

“No.”

“What is it, Harriet?” he questioned. “I assure you, she’s very nice…”

“I don’t care,” Harriet said flatly. “You want me to tell some stranger that Voldemort stripped me naked and shoved his fingers inside me?” Her voice rose to a heated pitch, and Lupin winced, though whether at her tone or her words was unclear. “You think that telling people about being fucking _raped_ is going to make it all better? What about in a couple of days time when the _Prophet_ runs a front-page story about how Harriet Potter’s damaged goods, physically and mentally? Well, they all think I’m mad anyway, but if you think I want the whole of the wizarding world talking about my bits…”

“Harriet,” Lupin interjected, holding up his hands, “She’s sworn to confidentiality. There won’t be any _Prophet_ headlines.”

Harriet snorted. “Like a little matter of confidentiality is going to stop the likes of Skeeter,” she sneered.

Lupin sighed. “Hermione, Ginny, Madam Locke is waiting in my classroom. Perhaps you’d like to speak to her whilst Harriet and I have a chat?”

“You won’t change my mind,” Harriet grumped sulkily.

“Perhaps,” Lupin replied grimly, waving the other two out of the room. Hermione threw a concerned look back over her shoulder. Harriet just glowered. Hermione shut the door softly behind her.

Lupin sighed and leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees. “I think you need to speak to someone, Harriet,” he said wearily.

“I don’t need some counsellor,” Harriet snapped back. “I have people I can talk to.”

“Not someone who is trained to deal with these situations,” Lupin explained patiently. “Harriet… I can’t help but see you as family, like a niece, perhaps, as well as my student. It is my duty to make sure you’ve got the care you deserve. That means making sure you have someone trained to help you through this; not your quidditch team.”

“Rubbish,” Harriet scoffed.  She sprang to her feet, pacing about the room. “You’re just like Dumbledore… you just want me to tell you everything that could be useful, just use me. Well, I get to have secrets, just like everyone else!”

Lupin  frowned. “Harriet, no,” he said, trying to remain calm. “I’m not going to force you to talk about anything you don’t want to. But what do you mean, about just being useful to Professor Dumbledore? He’s always cared about you deeply.”

Harriet braced her arms on the back of a chair and snorted. “Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you?” she said bitterly. “But I reckon that all he ever wanted was someone to fulfill his precious prophecy. He doesn’t want anything to do with me this year.”

She’d hedged her bets on Lupin knowing about the prophecy, being a member of the order. His frown deepened, and, slowly, he nodded. “I can see your point,” he conceded. “That doesn’t change my view that you need support after a very traumatic event. Severus assures me that you are healing physically, and growls at me to leave him alone, but he says nothing about your mental state.”

Harriet’s mouth quirked up in a ghost of a grin at the image of Severus telling Lupin to mind his own business. She thought, then, of her curled up on the bathroom floor, sobbing, as Severus sat beside her in comforting silence. “He’s looking after me like that as well,” she admitted quietly. “He and… and Robin.”

Lupin nodded. “Are you, erm, involved with Robin?” he asked quietly.

Harriet twitched her head in agreement.

“I thought you might be. Your scent changed, and I wondered if it was just the change in your sex… but I think that I am smelling him on you. I must admit, Severus kept the fact that he had a child very quiet,” Lupin mused. “It came as quite a surprise. I’m impressed- surprised, I admit, but impressed, at how kind Severus is with you, though. I didn’t think he had it in him. Very well, Harriet. I will not enforce a visit to the counsellor for you. The offer is there, if you want it, and my door is, as always, open to you, at any time.”

“Thank you,” Harriet replied- not to the offer of visiting him, but to his agreement that he wouldn’t make her see the dratted counsellor. “Can I go now?”

Lupin sighed and nodded, watching her leave with a heavy heart. He could see the spot Severus now occupied in her affections. It was very difficult to believe that slimy ‘Snivellus’ Snape could ever be such a friend to James Potter’s child. James and Severus had hated each other, always competing between themselves, not only for Lily, but for glory. And it was always James who took the glory, every time. Remus could understand why Snape had turned to darker and darker texts over the years, trying to best the prowess of James in duelling. James Potter had been lightning fast with his wand: Remus could see that talent shining through in Harriet too. Severus had always been a good dueller, but very few could match James. Remus had felt a twinge of surprise when he heard of events at Godric’s Hollow that Halloween  night: he’d felt surprise that Voldemort had actually bested James. But then, it was the darkness that James refused to so much as glance at that had let Voldemort defeat him so very roundly.

Remus had since thought that perhaps ‘dark’ magic should not be so very vilified as it was. Light magic, too, caused damage: many people these days mistook darkness simply as any magic which harmed. But it was not: it was magic that drew from older, less understood forces. It was magic that had to be tapped into, magic that used the caster as a conduit. Yes, it required careful study to manage, but it was not evil in and of itself. It was just easily turned to evil uses, given the power it offered. Perhaps Harriet could reach far greater heights of success than James ever had under the tutelage of men like Snape. He suspected, too, that she would be taught to respect, and channel, darker forces in her studies at the Wizarding colleges. They did not have such qualms as Albus Dumbledore when it came to the shadows. Dumbledore shied away from anything he did not understand, and carried on as if it did not exist in the world, except to demonise it.

No wonder he had made enemies.He’d been open to dark magic until his relationship with Grindelwald began to fracture, and their arguments on the subject were reported to have been part of the reasoning for the duel that led to Grindelwald’s death. Cyrus Clearbright, too, had been a friend to Albus until the gulf of opinion had been too great to overcome.

Perhaps, Remus mused, it was that inability to admit the usefulness of both sides of magic that had driven Tom Riddle to resist and fight Albus at every turn.


	66. Surgical Precision

Harriet would have liked to have said that she fell easily back into life at Hogwarts. With a wand in her hand that felt much like her old one, just newer, smoother, and without Blaise dogging her steps or her thoughts, it should have been easy. Severus had forewarned her on the day that Blaise’s death had been announced, and she, Hermione and Ginny all wisely chose to skip meals in the great hall for that day, as it had been draped in black. They were far happier tucking into their lunch in the splendid isolation of Harriet’s room. Harriet tried not to let it anger her to see Blaise honoured: as far as the other students were concerned, he had been killed in a tragic accident. To tell them what terrible things he had done would be to reveal everything that had happened. So, she hid away, and Severus, with the ease of long practice, hid his anger behind a facade of stoic annoyance. At least no one would expect tears and eulogies from him. She still didn’t like it, though.

And so, Harriet attended her lessons. She threw herself into the study of Defence, attending Lupin’s Wednesday evening club religiously. He wisely didn’t mention counselling again, though she saw him watching her, as if he were looking for signs of some kind of breakdown. Charms, Transfigurations and Potions also received her attentions as she tried to cover the material she had missed along with the current work, though she found herself paying less and less attention to Herbology. Perhaps it was that Tristan Lake had considered it a fruitless pursuit, or perhaps it was her own waning interest. It had never been her favourite subject: she had simply taken it to avoid any chance of being forced into Divination, and because it had been a recommended subject to enter Auror training.

Severus grudgingly admitted that her grasp of occlumency was now acceptable, and relinquished her Thursday evenings to the study of Ancient Runes. Professor Babbling began by lecturing her on the difficulty of allowing such a short space of time to study Runes, requisitioned her Monday lunchtimes and Thursday evenings and loaded her down with a pile of OWL textbooks and a translation to attempt before their next meeting, promising a test on the runic alphabet to follow. She didn’t seem overly happy to e teaching Harriet, grumbling about lost time, especially on Thursday evenings. She had a family, you know, she snapped at Harriet.

After a few days, the students all seemed to have forgotten that Harriet and Hermione had been absent. Their injuries healed, and Harriet took quidditch practices again, pleased at how well Ron had kept up the team in the absence of both the seeker and a chaser. Ginny, having supposedly been off school with a bout of black cat flu, was treated rather more gently than Harriet by the rest of the team. Harriet supposed that at least she had stopped bleeding, and scans for pregnancy had come up negative the day before. The lingering ache in her back didn’t cheer her up when she was thirty feet in the air, though the prospect of a hot bath at the end of the practice did. And perhaps if Robin would rub her back…

Robin. He’d visited almost every day, even if just for half an hour, sometimes just to make sure she was safe in bed... “Anna, mind that bludger!” Harriet called. Anna spotted the marauding ball, shooting up to whack it away from its trajectory, which would have ended somewhere around Ron’s head. She glanced at her watch, then whistled sharply, calling the team to order. “Time to pack up, guys,” she called. Anna and Jimmy took a bludger each, batting them to the ground and wrestling them into their straps. “Let’s say three laps as a cool down, yeah?

“You okay?” Ron murmured, angling his broom over so he hovered alongside her. He, of course, knew that she hadn’t just been off signing papers and arguing with lawyers, though even he didn’t know how ill she’d been. She wasn’t really willing to spread the tale of the post-coital contraceptive, not even to Ron. Even though Robin had reassured her that he really did think that she’d made the best choice

“I’m okay,” she reassured him with a smile. “Just trying to get back to normal.”

He nodded. “You know I’m here if you need a hand,” he said seriously.

“Thanks,” she replied shortly, not wanting to brush Ron off, but not really wanting to enter into some heart-to-heart on the quidditch pitch either. “Come on, guys,” she called. “If you don’t hurry up, you won’t have time for a bath before lunch.”

The little gaggle of Gryffindors gathered on the ground groaned and sent their brooms hurting to goal-level. Harriet grinned at Ron and urged her Peregrine forward. She felt a little guilty that she still outstripped him, even on his new broom, which he’d accepted with good grace as a suitable Christmas present when your friend owned multiple houses and a suit of armour.

Harriet had forgotten just how good it felt to be flying, properly flying. Not watching everyone else for mistakes or improvements, not planning drills and exercises, but just flying, as fast as she could go. With her wand securely strapped to her arm beneath her quidditch clothes and the broom firmly between her knees, life felt almost normal again. She laughed at Dean’s jokes on the way back up to the castle, peeling off from the rest of the team as they headed up the stairs and she slipped down the corridor to her rooms.

A smile still tugged around the corners of her lips as she opened her door and slipped in. It was as if the last three weeks hadn’t happened: her, coming in from quidditch with her hair wind-whipped and her cheeks pink, and Robin, lounging on her bed, a book propped in his lap. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Robin replied languorously, looking up at her. “It’s good to see you smile again.”

“It was good to fly again,” she replied, unbuckling her arm guards. She nibbled at her lower lip, a bit nervous. “Robin?” she asked. “Will you… will you kiss me?”

He unfolded himself from the nest of her blankets. “Are you sure, kitten?” he asked in honeyed, deep tones.

“I feel like I could pretend it didn’t really happen,” she murmured. Seeing Robin, in just his pyjamas, his hair silky and just catching his collarbones as he leant over his book… he caught her chin in one delicate hand. He watched her for a moment, close enough that she could see the dark-chocolate highlights of his eyes in the sunlight from the window. Very slowly, as if giving her every opportunity to pull away, he touched his lips to hers.

Her mouth opened in a gasp of surprise, and he stepped back, hands up in contrition. “It’s okay, kitten,” he said gruffly.

“No,” she murmured. “It’s not that… I just forgot…”

“Forgot what?”

“What it’s like to kiss you,” she replied breathlessly, her armguards still hanging loosely from her fingers. She dropped them, reaching up as she stepped forward. She wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes. She pressed her lips up to his, enjoying the softness of his mouth against hers. He let out a little moan, kissing her properly this time, though he kept his touch on her hips light, making sure she could pull away without any trouble at all, if she wanted to. She didn’t. She gripped her arms tighter around his neck, letting him take most of her weight as she melted into the warmth. Finally, he brought one hand up to softly cup the back of her head.

When they finally broke apart, more for breath than anything else, she said, “I should go and shower.”

“Okay,” he replied softly, not quite able to let her go completely, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He’d held her whilst she went to sleep, but this was the first sign of her wanting something more, something that was more than simply platonic.

“Do you… want to come with me?” she asked hesitantly.

He made a very concerted attempt to breathe normally. He’d already had some issues with his anatomy in the last couple of minutes; his cock had hardened even at the relative innocence of the kiss and he had no intentions of embarrassing himself further. “I’m not sure that’s a very good idea at the moment,” he choked out.

“Oh,” she replied, a little hurt, but hiding it behind a general air of teenage nonplus. “I… that’s okay. More room for me.”

“Exactly,” he replied with a wry grin. “I’m going to go and get dressed, okay?”

“See you in a bit,” she said, stooping to pick up her armguards and stow them in the wardrobe. He reached for her floo powder.

He did dress, as quickly as he could, and then went in hunt of his father. Perhaps not surprisingly, Severus was in his laboratory: Robin had been afraid that he might have been in his bedroom. There was no way he’d be going in there and possibly disturbing Severus with Hermione. The concept was bizarre enough; the execution was not an image he wanted embedded in his brain. He tried to be happy for his father: Severus had never mentioned any lady friend before, nor had Robin ever seen evidence of any relationships in the time he’d lived here. Mostly, he succeeded in just being glad for them: he liked Hermione. The idea of a girl younger than he was as a stepmother figure… well, he tried not to think about it.

Severus grunted as a nod to a civil greeting before turning his eyes back to his cauldron. The contents were bright grass green: It looked to be floo powder in the reduction stage, before it could be dried and crushed. Robin shuffled onto one of the high stools and laid his chin on his folded hands, watching as Severus kept the mixture always just under a boil, long practice and a good eye limiting the need for temperature monitoring charms many potioneers had to employ. Robin used a candy thermometer when he brewed something fussy about temperature. Then again, he also used a gas ring instead of a magically-sustained flame. Severus did, at least, insist upon proper cauldrons, and Robin had a full student set of two different sizes of pewter and one silver, plus a very small platinum, a birthday gift three years ago. He suspected that his father had just become bored of supplying him with the bruise salve which, like many specialised healing potions, was best made in a platinum vessel.

“Is this a social call?” Severus grunted, keeping his eye on his cauldron.

Robin didn’t grace that with an answer. He knew his father well enough not to be frightened by his snapping and snipping. “How long until Harriet’s fully healed?” he asked. Direct was usually better when it came to his father.

Severus spared him a scant glance, his eyebrow arched. “In what manner?” he enquired.

“Physically,” Robin clarified. “I know she’s probably going to be mentally affected by this for a very long time, if not forever. She’s talked about it, a bit.”

“You are aware that it is not the physical injuries that were ever the problem?”

Robin looked down at his hands, smoothing his thumb over a papercut on his left index finger. “She… she seems interested again.”

Severus grunted.

“So…” Robin continued, “I thought that maybe if you could have a look, see if everything was okay…”

Severus cast a stasis charm on his potion with a long-suffering sigh. He placed his glass stirring rod on the bench beside him. The mixture was beginning to crystallise. “Have you forgotten how upset she was about being examined?” he asked, rhetorically. Neither of them would forget her reticence quickly. Severus still had the samples from her and Hermione under stasis charms: it would be difficult to prosecute a dead man. “In all honesty, you are best placed to ensure she is healed, if she is ready to take up a sexual relationship. The injury to her genitalia was not so bad as it was following her unfortunate attempt at healing. It does not concern me.”

“But…” Robin started.

A raised eyebrow from Severus subsided his protest. “She does not need a healer, she needs an understanding friend,” he intoned. “How is she?”

“Erm, fine, I guess?” Robin replied, confused by the sudden change in tone. “She’s just come back from quidditch, she’s in the shower. She wanted me to go in with her, but…”

“But you were overly concerned about her health,” Severus finished for him. “Do you think she would be up to some… scenes of upsetting nature?”

Robin narrowed his eyes. Severus pushed up his sleeve.

The Dark Mark was vivid black, as it had been since Voldemort’s return. That wasn’t what made Robin gulp. It was the flesh around it, usually alabaster pale, but now dull red, with raised welts and lines of vivid crimson, as if Severus had clawed at it until it bled. “I cannot bear this any longer,” he hissed.

“You’re not sending her back,” Robin spat out. “Fucking hell, you’re not sending her back!”

Severus slapped at his workbench. “Idiot boy, of course she’s not going back.”

Robin gasped in a breath, his sudden panic barely subsiding. Severus twitched back the cloth he’d covered part of the bench with when he’d heard Robin approaching. A knife. A large pad of gauze, a pile of bandages. Uncorked phials of healing and blood replenishing potion. Most worryingly, a wickedly sharp looking cleaver. “What are you going to do?” he asked, his voice creaking, though he thought he could guess.

“I don’t know what will happen when I excise the mark,” Severus said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “I cannot trust Dumbledore even if he was well enough, and I’ll be damned if I let Lupin see me like this. Harriet’s the best bet to counter any magical repercussions.”

“She’s a kid!” Robin protested. “Surely, someone else…”

“We’ve discussed this,” Severus stated flatly. “She is an extremely gifted duellist, with fast reactions.”

Robin gulped “Who’ll… you know?” he asked, gesturing to the knife.

“I will cut it out.”

“It’s your own arm!”

Severus inclined his head with a sneer that spoke volumes. “Yes, it is. With a heavy dose of anaesthetic, it should not pose a problem. It is not that which concerns me. I would have completed the task already if that were the case; I am not afraid of pain. I will not be in any situation to counter a curse, however.”

“Dad…”

Severus would brook no interruption. “Ask Harriet to come here, please,” he said through gritted teeth. “She may decide if she is capable.”

With a last worried look at the knife, Robin went. Severus sighed in the anticipation of relief. The numbing salve was becoming rapidly ineffective, and an addiction to painkillers fast approaching. It could not be long until they too, stopped working. He knew from experience that it could not be removed by surgical magic: the only option left seemed to be the drastic one. He had sat the night before with the knife, and only the thought of some terrible dark magic thing being unleashed upon the castle had prevented him. He’d have to trust that Harriet, who was, by all accounts, the most promising student in Defence for a number of years, would be up to any challenge it might pose. His main worry was that removing the mark might summon Voldemort, but he hoped that the wards surrounding the castle, if nothing else, would suppress that.

Of course, there was the chance that he could die. He didn’t mind death so very much. He was regretful that if it came to that, he would leave Robin orphaned, but the boy was two decades old. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t make his own way in the world. His affairs were in order, his will rewritten to take Draco and Harriet into account. All the arrangements were made. He took the stasis spell off the cauldron, and began to stir again as he waited.

Harriet was spelling her hair dry when Robin tumbled back through the fire, looking a little green. “What’s wrong?” she asked with a frown.

He sat on the hearthrug with a thump. He spoke quickly, quietly. “When Dad brought you back…. No. Not that. When he adopted Draco, he broke faith with the Death Eaters. Since the Dark Lord heard, he’s been summoning him. Dad’s been using potions and salves to dull the pain. But they’re not working anymore.”

Harriet sunk to her knees before him. “Is he okay?” she asked urgently. “Robin, is he sick?”

He looked up, his face oddly twisted. “He… he wants to cut it out. The mark, that is. But he wants someone to be there in case… in case of some kind of magic coming out of it, I guess. He wants you to be there.”

“ _He_ wants to cut it out?” she questioned. “As in, cut it out himself?”

“He’s a lunatic,” Robin replied morosely.

“Yeah. He joined up to the Death Eaters, after all,” she pointed out. “Okay, let’s get the madness over with.”

Robin looked up as she got to her feet. “You’re actually going along with it?” he asked quizzically.

Harriet shrugged. “Well, yeah. He’s probably gonna do it anyway,” she pointed out. “And if something horrid happens, at least someone’ll be there to help. Are you coming?”

Robin groaned. “I suppose so.”

She looked at him oddly. “Are you squeamish?” She asked suddenly. She couldn’t say the prospect of watching Severus carve out a portion of his own arm was appealing, but she figured at least she wouldn’t be doing the actual cutting. But at the end of it, it would probably be no worse than a splinching.

“I hunt, Harriet,” Robin pointed out dryly. “I’ve gutted enough animals not to care about blood and guts. I just think cutting out a portion of your own arm with a schoolchild to help if anything goes wrong is foolish.”

“In the muggle world, maybe,” she said. “But if anything goes wrong, Madam Pomfrey can heal up injuries like that in a moment.”

“Magical people are mad,” Robin grumbled, unfolding from the floor and letting her get to the fireplace. “Come on, then. Let’s get it over with.”

Severus was spreading his crystallising floo mixture into large trays to dry when Robin tapped lightly on the door and gestured for Harriet to precede him. She stood nervously by the shelving, watching the Potions master lay out the trays on the far end of the bench and take his cauldron in the sink for cleaning.

Robin snaked his arm around her waist. She thought about pulling away, since he hadn’t wanted to join her earlier, but it was comforting. She might have said that gouging out chunks of flesh was no problem in the wizarding world, and it was true that healing injuries like that was easy compared to muggle methods, but she still didn’t much wish to see anyone deliberately injure themselves. She did like Severus these days, after all.

Finally, Severus placed his cauldron back into its cupboard and turned to face them. “Do you know why I’ve asked you to come here, Harriet?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard and nodded. “You want to try to remove your Dark Mark,” she said quietly. “But I didn’t think that was possible?”

“To my knowledge, nobody has ever tried physically removing it. Using spells to remove it doesn’t work, and causes pain: Lucius Malfoy and I tried enough times between the wars. I’m unsure of what will happen if I physically cut of from my body, however.”

“What do you think might happen?” She asked, wanting to know what she should prepare for.

Severus leaned back against his counter. “In the worst case, I think I will die. If that is so, you will find a letter detailing my intentions and my death wishes on my desk.”

“Dad!” Robin burst out.

“Hush, Robin,” Severus said softly. “The pain is becoming too much for me to bear. I want to do this before I am driven to suicide. I hope not to die. It is more likely, I think, that there will be some backlash: a curse, perhaps- it’s always worth attempting anti-jinxes as fast as possible, Harriet. I may be poisoned from within- there is a bezoar waiting in the dish over there, if that is the case. Lastly, I would not be surprised by snakes. That is a reason I would prefer your input, Harriet- you may be able to control them, reason with them.”

“Reason with snakes?” Robin demanded, his voice squeaking again.

“Has Harriet never told you that she can converse with snakes?” Severus asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It never came up,” Harriet muttered. “D’you want me to put up magical shields around you first?”

“Yes, I think that would be advisable,” Severus agreed with a nod. “Robin, perhaps you would like to step outside?”

“I’m staying here,” Robin insisted.

Severus dipped his head again. “Very well. If necessary, floo for Madam Pomfrey. Harriet may be otherwise engaged.” He nodded, and Severus fixed Harriet in his dark gaze. “Very well. Harriet, ready?”

“Ready,” she said with a gulp, clutching her wand and wondering how on earth she’d managed to end up in this situation when an hour ago she’d been flying, thinking that the world didn’t seem so bad. She raised her wand to engulf Severus in the strongest curse-shield she knew. It wouldn’t stop anything physical, but it would stop a curse spreading out to her, and Robin.

Severus turned to his bench, picking up a long strip of cloth. He rolled up his shirt sleeve, showing again the reddened, angry forearm. Harriet took a sharp breath, and Robin squeezed her hip in sympathy before stepping back to give her space. Severus wound the cloth just below his elbow, tying it in a tourniquet and pulling it tight with his teeth. The dull, throbbing ache of trapped blood set into his arm, competing with the stab of the Mark. With a breath, he picked up the knife. It was already cleaned, but he spelled it for cleanliness anyway, the blade burning cherry for a moment as it heated and burned any impurities away. He did the same to the cleaver: if it came to it, he would amputate the entire arm.

Lastly, he picked up a heavy glass syringe. Most magical remedies were delivered in the form of drinks or salves, but some were best administered to the bloodstream or muscle, as with muggle medicine. His jaw set heavily, he plunged the needle into the Mark, his left hand curled into a tight fist, knuckles white as he plunged the top of the syringe down, releasing the spikes of ice into the muscle and sinew of his forearm. The tourniquet kept the potion below his elbow, at least for now. He needed the potency. He pulled the needle from his flesh, setting the syringe down with a click.

He glanced up. Robin had turned to the side, away from him, but Harriet was watching closely, her wand in the ready position, her body in a fighting stance. She smiled weakly at him, and her smile was all Lily. He felt his gaze soften, and he smiled back. “Robin,” he murmured softly, a little afraid now. Robin looked up, though not quite meeting his eyes. “I love you,” Severus said, quickly, in case he lost his nerve.

“Love you too, Dad,” Robin whispered brokenly.

Severus nodded, not given to high emotion, and unsure of the fear in his chest. This should not frighten him. He turned to rest his left arm on the counter before him, leaning on it to take his weight off his feet. Experimentally, he prodded at his flesh, first with a finger, then with the point of the knife, and felt nothing. He watched a bead of blood rise from the reddened flesh dispassionately, like it belonged to someone else. So far as he was concerned, his left arm was no longer his own, no longer attached to his body. Exchanging the knife for his wand, he spelled the flesh sterile.

A breath, and he placed the knife an inch from the Mark. It was sharp, and needed little pressure to break through the skin. It was like peeling an orange at breakfast. Behind his, Harriet licked her dry lips. She couldn’t see. She shifted a foot to her left, keeping her wand trained on Severus.

Nothing was happening yet, at least, he realised, but then, he’d barely made a cut. Steeling himself, he began to slice slowly with the knife. One side freed.

The blade curved around the head of the snake, and Severus barely breathed, careful to keep a distance from the inky brand. Blood welled, but he ignored it. It dripped down his arm.

Halfway there.

Across the room, Robin had braced his arms against the door frame, resting his head against the hard wood. He resisted the urge to bang his forehead against the stone.

Severus let out a mighty exhale as he completed the ruby ring of blood. Now all the remained was to separate the flesh from the muscle beneath. He had no idea how deeply the brand extended, but his surgery wizard mentor had always held to the idea that more could always be taken away, but it was harder to add flesh back. He angled the blade to take a quarter of an inch slice below the mark. This was the hard part: he couldn’t see what he was doing. He whispered a cleaning spell again to vanish the blood pooling and dripping. There was a splash on the marble of his worktop.

Faster was better. He cut.

He winced as black tendrils began to creep into the flowing crimson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I know, I know, I’m mean. Sorry, you’ll just have to wait for the next chapter! :)  
> I know that canonically (well, Pottermore canon, which I don’t hold as highly as book canon by a long shot) floo is only made by one company, and not brewed/created by anyone else. Sorry, I like the idea of Severus being able to make his own floo- between he and Harriet and Robin, they certainly get through a bit. So, in my universe, Severus gets to make floo...  
> Proof note: Snape being an experienced potions master, and highly skilled, means that he should be able to brew floo. I’m still wondering how deliberate it was to have me putting this chapter up on the same day as I had minor surgery, though :P Anyway, you’ll get Teao back doing the updates from monday, and I’ll diminish, and pass into the west.


	67. Actions and consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back again after a lovely holiday!  
> Sorry for my last cliffhanger- I was feeling very evil. But not to worry, here's the next installment!

Severus had to grit his teeth and keep going, carefully removing the Dark Mark. There was no going back now, no matter what was happening. His instinct was to stop, to analyse this new turn of events, but perhaps it was better to get it over and done with.

At first, the stark black line in his blood had looked to be something alive: a snake was his first guess, then as a second and third appeared, perhaps the legs of a spider, but now, in many little rivulets, it appeared to be ink of some kind. It began to smoke. A drop ran over the finger of his right hand, clutching the knife, and it hissed across his flesh, leaving a reddened welt. His hand flinched with the pain, bringing out another burst of inky liquid.

“What is it?” Harriet asked quietly from behind him. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. He sliced quickly beneath the remainder of the mark, flinging it into the silver dish waiting to the side, where is seeped unpleasantly. 

It had been a very long time since Severus had performed any kind of surgery, and, he realised, this was the first time he had not been observed by a mediwizard. Then again, it was not usual to perform your own surgery either, but Poppy would never have agreed. Snatching up his wand, he vanished the blood, pooling and darkening with black tendrils in the shallow indentation.

A wellspring of black rose from the centre of the wound. Instinct told him that it had to come out. Holding the knife in a fist, he took a cone of muscle, as if hulling a strawberry, vanished the swelling blood, and checked again. 

No blackness. His sigh of relief was so low that neither Harriet or Robin registered it as more than a breath. Could it be that easy? He uncorked a phial of the strongest healing and cleansing potion he knew and tipped it over the chasm on his arm. It began to foam, just as it should. “Is… is that it?” Harriet asked. 

“It would appear so,” Severus said wearily. “I admit, I was expecting more. It resisted every spell and curse we tried, even resisted magical amputation. It seems strange that it can be so easily physically removed.” He watched as the potion remnants tinged pink and fizzed away, then, picking up his wand, began to croon the words to a healing spell. The oozing blood began to lessen as vessels knitted, but even three repetitions left the wound gaping, red and glistening. Giving up, Severus covered it in gauze and tightly wrapped it, securing the bandage with a spell.. “Keep a watch, Harriet,” he warned. Still with use of only his right arm, he pulled the dish towards him.

Pathology was not something he’d ever been immersed in. Yes, there had been studies of late miscarriages, looking for causes. Every mediwizard-in-training did a course in pathology, of course, but it hadn’t been his area of interest. He used the flat of the blade to flip the odd red object, that didn’t really look like it had come from a person, so the skin was up.

There should have been a mark there, a stark black skull and snake. Instead, the clearly delineated brand was faded into a greyish haze, and blackness continued to seep from the severed vessels, and even pinprick along the pores. Severus felt a step behind him and threw out his arm to stop whoever it was. From the elbow down, he still felt nothing, but his shoulder worked fine. He knew he would need to release the tourniquet soon or face damage, but he would find Poppy before he did, since he’d been unable to fully close the wound. He turned his head to glare at Robin. “Keep away, foolish child,” he snapped. “It’s a dark artifact.”

“Doesn’t seem to be doing much harm at the moment,” Robin countered. “Are you… are you okay?”

“As you can see, I am still very much alive,” Severus retorted sharply, watching the last of the mark fade.

“But what’s the black gunk?” Robin questioned queasily. The inkiness shifted, moving within the sheen of blood like oil on water. It almost looked as if it were searching, and for a moment, Severus was sure it took on the shape of the dark mark. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

Harriet’s shields finally broke as she dropped her wand, deciding that if anything was going to happen, it would have done so by now. She stepped up next to Robin and Severus flapped his right hand at them. “Move back,” he snarled. “I can’t see a thing.”

“But what is it?” Harriet pressed.

“I have no idea. I think I liked you better when you were scared of me.” He bent his hooked nose closer to the dish, though careful to avoid touching the contents. The odd, metallic scent of blood hung in the air. He turned his gaze to the thin trail on his right thumb where the black liquid had splashed, leaving a vivid red trail. “I think that it is possibly the stuff the Mark was made of. I would advise against touching it. Now, out, you two, before Robin faints. I need to see Poppy.”

“I thought you were okay?” Robin queried, swallowing the concern in his voice and trying to sound light. He failed, unable to hide how bloodless his face was.

Severus reached for his robes with his good arm, struggling to get his useless arm in. Robin eventually took pity on him, holding the robes up. “I am,” Severus grumbled. “It is merely that the healing of the wound was not as smooth as I had hoped, and I would appreciate a second opinion. My gratitude for your time, but your presence is no longer required.”

“Dad, you just literally cut a chunk out of your own arm!” Robin protested. “I think I’ve got the right to be concerned.”

“I am fine,” Severus replied, looking down his nose at them and pulling himself up to his full height. For Harriet, the difference between Snape and Severus was most easily delineated by the presence or absence of his teaching robes: with them on, she still saw the Potions professor. She tugged Robin towards the fireplace, though he dragged his feet and kept an eye on his father until she pressed a pinch of floo powder into his palm and pushed him towards the fire. 

When both young people had vanished through the flames, Severus let out the breath he’d been holding, and left by the more conventional means of the door, climbing up from the dungeons to the hospital wing.

Back in Harriet’s room, Robin mumbled “Excuse me,” before fleeing to the bathroom. When he didn’t come back a few minutes later, Harriet went looking. 

“I thought you said you weren’t squeamish about it?” she questioned, lowering herself to sit on the floor beside him. He had his forehead resting on the lip of the toilet, but it didn’t look like he’d actually thrown up. Her heart thumped painfully. He was hurting, that much was clear.

“You just watched a man literally cut a chunk out of his own arm,” he replied, his voice muffled. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“I’ve also seen a man cut off his own hand to create a body for Voldemort,” she reminded him, her voice low and soft. Robin’s shoulders rippled with taut muscles. He turned his head to the side to peer up at her as she continued. “I was tied to a gravestone, and my blood was collected. I watched my friend die. I’ve seen some pretty messed up crap, to be honest.” Watching the careful, surgical excision of Severus’ mark had been infinitely preferable to hearing Wormtail’s scream as he lopped off his own hand. 

“I didn’t realise…” Robin murmured, realising she was referring to that night in the graveyard, at the end of the Triwizard… the night his dad had returned to their rooms and broken half the crockery, only to have to repair it the next morning. “Dad didn’t talk about it, and it wasn’t like the  _ Prophet _ was reporting it, just that the other boy died…”

“Cedric. His name was Cedric,” Harriet responded. “And he was only there because I wanted to be the noble one. He should never have died.”

“I’m sorry,” Robin said. 

Harriet shrugged. The graveyard was her recurring nightmare. Now she had the cellars below Malfoy Manor to add. “Can I get you anything?” she asked instead. She had to look after him now, she realised. He’d been taking care of her. It was her turn for a bit.

Robin shook his head and levered himself to his feet, using the loo as balance. “No,” he sighed. “I’ll be okay. It was just kind of disgusting.”

Harriet offered to skip lunch to be with him, but Robin wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to get back home, he said, and do some work. The unspoken reasoning was that away from the magical world, he might forget what had just happened. Surrounded by muggles, it was easy to think that the magic was unreal, and he hoped that the same was true of the image of that knife digging into Severus’ arm. He’d be back before bed, he promised, to make sure she was alright- and to see his father. He didn’t trust that all was well with the Potions master any more than Harriet did. So she meandered down the the great hall to eat, hungry from quidditch despite the rather vile interlude that followed. The last hour seemed to be taking on an odd, dreamlike quality, and she found herself wondering if it had  _ really _ happened? But then, Severus was absent from lunch, seeing Madam Pomfrey, and she couldn’t have just imagined that. 

She certainly hadn’t expected a visitation from a Slytherin at the table. She raised an eyebrow to Draco as he crouched beside the Gryffindor table. “A word, Potter?” he asked, his voice low. He was getting curious looks from the Gryffindors- curious, and some outright hostile. Fraternising between Gryffindor and Slytherin just didn’t happen.

“What, Snape?” she retorted, though the name felt odd on her tongue. Snapes were dark and lanky, not blond and pretty and compact-bodied.

Draco winced. “In private?” he suggested. 

Harriet looked down at her empty plate. She couldn’t use that as an excuse. “Yeah, sure,” she sighed, clambering over the bench.

“Want me to come?” Ron asked, looking mistrustfully at Draco. 

The blond shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” Harriet assured Ron. “I’ll probably see you a bit later on.” She followed Draco out of the dining hall. “So, where to?” she asked. 

He looked uncomfortable. “Can we go to your room?” he queried.

She’d expected that much. She could have refused, but it seemed stupid. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he could have done whatever he wanted down in the cellars. Instead, he’d rescued them. She couldn’t really doubt his motives anymore. She led him down the corridor.

“How did you get used to changing your name?” Draco asked suddenly. “I just can’t get along with it. I still feel like… like, well, me, I suppose, and ‘Draco Snape’ just doesn’t sound like me.”

Harriet shrugged. “I guess it helped that it was almost the same as my old name,” she responded. In truth, it had just seemed natural: she’d started thinking of herself as Harriet instead of Harry very quickly. “And I could see why I had a different name every time I looked down.” She indicated the swell of her breasts, then opened her portrait-door and waved him in. “The hardest part was getting everyone else to remember.”

“Some chance of them letting me forget,” Draco muttered darkly. “Half of Slytherin won’t even acknowledge my existence, but the other half won’t shut up.”

“Erm, sorry?” Harriet offered, not really sure what to say. “Was there, erm, something you wanted?”

Draco sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. You don’t need my problems, you’ve got enough of your own. Do you know where Severus is? I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Why does everyone always ask me that question?” Harriet grumbled. “I’m not his keeper.”

“No, but you were living there last week,” Draco pointed out, sounding hurt. “Look, it’s… it’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

“He went to the hospital wing at about half past eleven,” Harriet admitted. “How important is it? Because I have another way to get into his rooms and see if he’s there, but he’ll probably bite my head off if it’s just because some Slytherin insulted you and you can’t deal with it.”

Draco snorted with affront. “Seriously, Potter? You think I’m going to go crying to him because I don’t have any friends?”

Harriet just raised her eyebrows. The times he’d run to his father in the past were impossible to just forget, and she didn’t know if he’d expect Severus to guard him in the same way.

“Eugh, you should stop doing that,” Draco commented. “You look just like Snape… just like Professor Snape.” His shoulders sagged. “Okay, look, I think the headmaster’s gone crazy. Crazier than he was. He… he’s going to send me back, to be a spy. Send me back to the Death Eaters.”

“ _ What? _ ” Harriet cried.

Draco shuffled uncomfortably. “Yeah. Because Snape… Severus… can’t now. Because he gave me his name. But Dumbledore wants me to go back, say that Severus basically kidnapped me and used me to rescue you. He wants me to take the mark.”

“Draco, you can’t!” Harriet insisted. Dumbledore really was completely mad! There was no way Draco could fill the role Severus had: for a start, it wasn’t as if he could move between the school and the Death Eaters easily. He wasn’t a branded Death Eater, and from what Harriet knew, it wasn’t for lack of trying on Lucius Malfoy’s part. Even if it was possible, Draco wouldn’t be able to hide his thoughts from Voldemort like Severus could. He’d be more a liability than a help!  “You wouldn’t be marked until after you were over school-age anyway!”

Draco studied the floor. “I’m scared,” he admitted. “A Malfoy never says he’s scared. A Malfoy never shows fear. But I’m not a Malfoy anymore. But how do you say no to Dumbledore?”  
“I don’t think he could do much to you if you refused,” Harried pointed out. “Didn’t you see how dreadful he looks? He’s dying. Severus said he’ll be dead within weeks. And he’s clearly losing his mind. No offence, but I think that’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been friends with Ron Weasley for seven years.”

Draco stifled a faint grin at the idea of plans the youngest Weasley boy might have concocted. “It’s weird to think of a world without Dumbledore.”

“Yeah. Erm, D’you want me to see if I can find Severus?”

“As long as you consider my plea of sufficient importance, oh great gatekeeper,” Draco intoned sarcastically, dropping into a mock bow.

Harriet shoved him playfully. “Stay here. And don’t mess with my stuff!” She reached for the floo powder, and swirled through to Severus’ rooms.

“Severus?” she called, not sure where he’d be.

There was a rustle and a vague thump from the direction of the bedrooms. Before she could get there, Severus appeared in his doorway, clumsily attempting to button a shirt one-handed. “What?” he snapped.

“D’you… erm… want some help with that?” she asked, nodding in the direction of his chest. 

He huffed. “Fine,” he agreed with poor grace, though he’d been struggling with the shirt for almost five minutes. The buttons kept popping back out of place. 

Harriet’s smaller hands tugged the cloth, hiding the bare glimpse of his pale chest. His ribs protruded, she noticed with a sick little lurch in her throat. He was dreadfully, painfully thin, his condition hidden by layers of clothing. She resolved to ask Hermione if there was anything they could do. “Draco’s been looking for you,” she said as she slipped each of the twelve buttons into their holes. No plastic buttons for Severus: they were made of shell. Severus grunted, which she took as an invitation to continue. “He says he’s been to a meeting with Dumbledore, and Dumbledore wants him to go back.”

Severus’ right hand shot up, grasping her wrist as she pushed the last button home, his chin tilted so she could reach. “What?” he hissed, his eyes glinting in the dim corridor light. 

“He’s in my room right now,” Harriet said. “Shall I send him through?”

“Yes,” Severus agreed, his voice flinty. “I think that would be for the best.”

She nodded, stepping back as he released her wrist. “How are you?” she asked.

“My health is adequate.”

“How are you actually?” she pressed. “What did Madam Pomfrey say?”

He looked down at her with a hint of a sneer. “I shall have to heal the muggle way,” he allowed. “No healing spells seem to be effective on the wound, but I shall survive. Please fetch Draco.”

“Alright, alright, give me a minute,” she replied sarcastically. 

He caught at her shoulder as she turned. “Watch your tone, Miss Potter, lest you become over-familiar,” he warned. 

She wanted to argue; she’d opened her mouth to riposte when her brain kicked into action. She knew he was probably right: he was still her teacher, and it would be odd if she started expecting him to be kind in lessons. She’d probably just lose a shedload of points. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, and went to fetch Draco. 


	68. A comfortable interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Just wanted to remind you that there's still a couple of days of voting left on the fantic fanfic awards, and it'd be lovely if you could find a couple of minutes to pop over to http://awards.fanaticfanfics.com/index.php/vote#favorite-harry-potter-fanfic and vote for me!

Harriet snuggled beneath the covers, the only light in the room from the fire, banked to last until morning. It seemed like every way she turned, though, there was something wrong. Her hair tickled her neck. She brushed it away. Then the pillow had sunk oddly, cricking her neck, or the sheets bunched around her. She twitched them, rolling onto her back and staring at the canopy of her bed. It wasn’t really a conscious choice; her hand just seemed to slip down the front of her pyjamas without any thought on her part. She cupped her fingers between her legs, just comfortable. 

Comfortable was a distraction from the silence, though. Slowly, a finger pressed until it slipped between her legs. She wasn’t wet yet; without really thinking, she brought her hand up to her mouth, licked her fingers. Then she paused: what was she doing? Was she going to masturbate? Now?

She hadn’t really even touched herself down there since Malfoy manor… well, until that morning, when she’d slipped a finger inside herself in the shower, afraid that it might hurt, but pleasantly surprised when it didn’t even twinge. She’d been ready to try to instigate something with Robin when he came back… not sex, perhaps, but something. Severus had rather thrown a spanner in her works, though. Robin hadn’t been in any kind of state for play after that, and, to be honest, it had rather put her off too. She sort of understood why Severus hadn’t wanted Hermione there instead of her. Besides the whole talking-to-snakes thing, of course.

Somehow, as she mused, her hand had found its way back between her thighs, idly stroking at herself. She arched her hips and eased her pyjama bottoms out of her way. This had been her routine over the past couple of months: to drift to sleep following a gentle, comfortable climax, unless Robin was with her. If he was here, she usually fell asleep in much the same sated state, and woke with sticky thighs from his come, leaked from her during the night.

She fell into the mindless rhythm, her middle finger slowly circling the silky nubbin of her clit as her index and ring finger held her lips away, just enough to give her a clear sweep. Her mind cleared, concentrating only on the motion. She dipped her middle finger down to her entrance, swirling into the pool of moisture just beginning to form there and easing it up. She kept her movements slow, gentle: whilst her instinct was to go faster, force the pleasure, she enjoyed teasing herself. Her free hand rubbed down her sensitive belly, her fingertips pressing in just above her pubic bone. She might have started pleasuring herself only recently in the grand scheme of things, but she’d done plenty of experimenting since then, and she’d adopted a lot of what Robin did with his clever fingers. She far preferred the small, delicate motions, the drag and swirl of fingers against her clit, now quiescent, now pulsing, than the huffing and puffing and tugging of masturbation as a boy. The violence, the abruptness of it had never seemed quite right. This, though, this was her quiet time. Her head pressed back against the pillows as her hips arched off the bed, only by a few millimetres, pressing her slick flesh against her steady fingers. She took in a deep breath as the tingling need began inside her, radiating out. It wouldn’t be long now…

The light in the room flashed green, and Harriet gasped like a woman saved from drowning, a harsh, gasping indrawing of breath. She was grasping beneath her pillow for her wand before she’d even registered that it was light from the fire as the floo activated and Robin clambered from the hearth. “Which idiot made floo green?” she grumbled, one hand over her hammering heart. With a flick of her wand, she lighted the lamp beside the bed.

“I… don’t know?” Robin offered, looking a little bit bewildered. “Is it a problem?”

“The light from  _ Avada _ is green,” Harriet explained, flopping back on her pillows. “In the dark, when you’re not expecting it… it’s a bit scary.”

“Sorry,” he murmured apologetically, his eyebrows drawing together. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” Harriet sighed. She shuffled over so Robin could sit on the bed next to her. “Sorry. I suppose I’m still just a bit jumpy.”

“It’s alright, kitten,” he soothed, kicking off his shoes and stretching out next to her. “I get it.” He took his hand in his, then wrinkled his nose. “Erm, Harriet, why are your fingers sticky?”

She blushed. “I… erm… that is, I was just…”

He grinned. Now that he saw her blush, he realised what she’d been doing. “You’re allowed to masturbate, love,” he murmured. “You know that. I’m pleased you are.”

She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Robin was, had always been so open and easy about sex, but she wasn’t really used to it even now. It didn’t help, of course, knowing that if any of her peers knew what she’d been doing, she’d be ridiculed, held up as a dissolute, magically diminishing…

Robin lay so his lips were brushing her ear. He raise his head slightly to brush a kiss to her temple. “Would you like some help, kitten?” he breathed. He quashed down the insecurity he felt in asking: he didn’t want to be rejected, but he knew it was possible. 

“Okay,” she agreed quaveringly. 

He kissed her again. “Hang on two minutes,” he murmured. “I need the loo.”

“Okay,” she repeated. He eased himself off the bed. It wasn’t so much that he needed the loo as he wanted to wash his hands before he touched her: he was given to be careful with her at the best of times, let alone when she could still be delicate, possibly still injured. The last thing he wanted was to make her ill, or cause her pain. He availed himself of her facilities, and stripped out of his jeans and jumper and socks, leaving his underwear and t shirt on, mostly so she didn’t think he was pressuring her into anything. 

She blinked up at him when he returned. He leaned over her to press a kiss to her forehead, then to her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed as she melted against him, her mouth warm, still tasting of mint. He pulled back reluctantly. “Is it okay if I touch you?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

“Course it is,” she said, wishing she sounded anywhere near as sure as he did. Why was she nervous? she wondered. It wasn’t nerves at being touched, she felt like he might reject her, find her disgusting or dirty… her thoughts froze as he twitched the covers off her.

“How about we get these pyjamas off you?” he suggested silkily. 

She nodded jerkily, sitting so she could pull her top over her head. He slipped his hands beneath the waistband of the bottoms, tugging gently until she arched her hips to help him. She held her breath as he swept his obsidian dark eyes across her.

“Beautiful girl,” he breathed, settling on the bed beside her. He leaned down to kiss her again, and this time, one hand crept slowly up the sweeping curve of her waist, along her ribs, and came to rest against the side of her breast. She was tense, kissing back, but not really relaxed. “Roll over,” he requested. 

“Huh?”

“Roll onto your tummy, please.” 

“Why?”

Robin smiled languorously. “Nothing bad,” he promised. She still looked mistrustful, but did as he asked anyway. He admired the strength in her shoulders from wrangling brooms, and couldn’t help eyeing the proud curve of her buttocks, the shadowed cleft between them. She’d looked so beautiful with a blush of pink across those cheeks, but he suspected that a spanking would not be appreciated just then. 

He started by stroking his hands firmly down from the peak of her shoulders to the small of her back. He wished he had some kind of oil… or cream. “Do you have any moisturiser?” he asked.

“Erm, yeah, in the bathroom… um, hang on.” She scrabbled again for her wand. “ _ Accio _ moisturiser,” she said, catching the zooming tube with ease. 

“Thanks,” he said, accepting it from her. He squirted a good dollop into his palm, and cupped it in his hands for a few seconds, warming it. He could have asked her to cast a warming charm, but it seemed more intimate, somehow, warming it with his own body heat. He stroked the slippery cream down her back, trying to get it everywhere. She settled her head back down on her folded arms, deciding just to let him carry on, see what transpired... 

She groaned in pleasure when he pressed his fingers into her muscles, right where the column of her neck became the slope of her shoulder. “I should get you to do this after quidditch practice,” she moaned.

“Anytime, kitten,” he murmured. “You only have to ask.” He kneaded a trail down the valley of her spine. 

She didn’t really seem to notice him stroking lower and lower, his palms drifting from the small of her back to her hips, and finally, stroking across the soft rise of her bottom. If it weren’t for the occasional exhalation of pleasure, he might have thought her asleep. He spread his fingers across her buttocks, squeezing gently, and was surprised when he was rewarded by a little arch of her hips. “You like that?” he asked with a quiet smile. His fingers brushed teasingly just down the shadowed, secret cleft of her cheeks

“Mmmhmmm,” she agreed. He was even more surprised when she spread her legs, inviting him in. Was that a surge of pride in his chest? How odd. 

“Just a moment, love,” he whispered, ducking back across the room to the bathroom, rinsing the residue of the cream from his hands. Yet something else he didn’t want on her private parts…

She’d rolled to her side, watching him come back across the room. “Will you take off your clothes?” She asked quietly. “I want to see you.”

He answered her only with a smile, pulling his top over his head. He tucked his fingers in his underwear and raised an eyebrow at her, a question. She nodded, and he shimmied them over the arcs of his hips, letting them drop to the floor. He settled back onto the bed somewhere in the region of her knees. “Let me see, love,” he murmured, pressing at her uppermost hip until she rolled to her back again, boneless and quiescent from his earlier attentions. Carefully, he picked up one leg, bending the knee up until she was open to him. She didn’t protest, letting him move her at will. Her concerns seemed to have floated away on a haze, her mind fuzzy and warm. He laid one hand flat on her belly. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he informed her silkily. She gave a lazy smile, and he turned his attention to the patch of fine hair between her legs. Gently, he split her apart with two careful fingers, showing the glistening pink insides of her pussy. That was a sight of which he would never grow bored. 

She was pleasingly moist, creamy slipperiness coating everything, from both her earlier activities and his attentions. He couldn’t see anything amiss, not that he really knew what he was looking for. She looked just as she always had. He ran a hand up her thigh, from her knee to that extra-sensitive little crease at the top of the leg. She sighed out a breath, her eyes fluttering closed.

He teased unashamedly. He stroked his fingers over the soft pillowiness of her outer labia, skating down onto the sensitive, taut pinkness of her perineum. She was blooming like a flower under his touch, her clit swelling and begging for attention. He was hardening at just the sight of her, a pool of moisture collecting at her entrance. 

He ignored her needy clit. She groaned as he peeled back the hood, careful not to touch the little bud. “Please…” she begged.

“Not yet, kitten,” he whispered. He pinched her inner lips gently between forefinger and thumb, spreading them. He teased a fingertip around her opening, finding that deliciously sensitive spot at the top, between her vagina and urethra, and stroking at it mercilessly. If she hadn’t been so utterly relaxed from his backrub, she’d have been pleading, grabbing his hands, probably begging to be fucked. Instead, she pressed her hips up to him, trying to angle herself so he couldn’t help but slip inside, or tipping them down trying to get his to brush over her clit. He was too clever for her, seeing the movements and avoiding them until she was little more than a pile of goo. This, this was what he loved doing: being so in control of her pleasure. He even bravely dipped his fingers into the cleft of her bottom, brushing against the shadowed skin near her arse, pressing lightly, but not entering. She certainly didn’t complain.

Eventually, he took pity on her. He dipped his head, the silky coolness of his hair pooling at the junctures of her thighs. She took in a deep, shuddering breath: she loved that sensation, and she knew exactly what it preceded. He sealed his lips around her swollen clit, sucking as if it were a tiny cock. A groan formed deep in her throat. He lashed against the trapped nub with the tip of his tongue, the movement quick and regular, like her breathing. 

She was more than wet enough for his finger to slip in with little resistance, but her pussy was tight around him, swollen with need. He turned his hand to face upwards, angling his finger to press behind her pubic bone. Another lick, and the pressure sent her over. He pulled back as her hips bucked up, not wanting to sustain any injury from her movements. It would be just like him to put his teeth through his lip and bleed everywhere. 

He kept his finger firmly inside her as she clenched, then as she subsided, little flutters following her climax. He stroked her trembling belly soothingly, eventually withdrawing and crawling up the bed to pull her into his arms. He tucked the blankets around them both. 

She rested her head on his shoulder and blinked sleepily up at him. “All okay, kitten?” he breathed.

Her response was an indistinct mumble. After a few minutes, she wiggled her hand free and tucked it down between their bodies, seeing out his half-hard cock. He sucked in a breath as she wrapped her fingers around the base. 

“You don’t have to…”

“Mmmhmmm,” she agreed, and clumsily stroked up to the tip and back, pulling his foreskin as she went. She was moving slowly, erratically, but the pressure was just right. Robin just sighed out a breath and let her get on with it, enjoying the sensation of her hard little fingers around him. 

Within a few minutes, though, her motions slowed, then stopped, her breathing falling into the pattern of sleep, her fingers still loosely cupped around him. He could only smile down at her. Perhaps she would be able to forget Malfoy Manor sooner than he’d expected, be able to just be herself again, and not a frightened captive. He just wanted to pepper her with kisses, feel her pleasure again… carefully, he laid his own hand over her sleeping one, squeezing her loosened fingers around his shaft, carefully pumping it. He didn’t want to wake her…

He had a brief moment of wondering if this was okay… was it okay to do this as she slept? Feeling guilty, he carefully unfurled her fingers, laying her hand onto his belly instead. His own hand didn’t feel as good, but it was good enough. He, too, slept sated.

 


	69. Changes in circumstance

It was in Charms that it happened. They were currently practicing all manner of useful household charms: scrubbing and dusting and fixing, in preparation for life on their own. McGonagall had them practicing medium-length transfigurations for furniture, since some of them would be setting up house with almost nothing. Severus was teaching a segment on reviewing everyday healing potions: burn salves and so forth, and Sprout had even taken a foray into growing vegetables. Lupin had them going over wards for personal property. And Flitwick, apparently, was obsessed with cleaning charms. 

He’d requisitioned the Potions classroom for this lesson, with its scarred and stained workbenches. Each student took a bench, using any charms they felt necessary to clean it to Flitwick’s standards. Someone had already wondered aloud why Severus hadn’t just given the task as a detention to some hapless miscreants. Harriet was just contemplating how best to deal with an impressive scorch mark when chips of marble showered around her, some stinging against the back of her head. She wasn’t the only one to cry out in surprise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Neville chanted, red faced, an impressive gouge of marble radiating out on his bench like a sunburst. 

Professor Flitwick trotted over with a small stool he was using to stand on. He’d never be able to see the tops of the benches otherwise. He clambered onto it and peered at Neville’s table. “What did you do?” he asked squeakily. 

“A sc..scouring charm,” Neville stuttered.

“A bit strong, don’t you think?” Flitwick commented quietly.

Wide eyed, Neville nodded. 

“I knew allowing Longbottom back into my classroom was a mistake.” Everyone’s heads snapped around. Severus stood, ramrod straight, arms folded, in the doorway of his storeroom. Neville squeaked as Severus strode across the classroom, robes billowing. He stopped squarely in front of Neville. The merest flick of his wand send shards and chips of marble flying back into place on the surface of the table. 

Flitwick clapped his hands in delight. “A perfect  _ lapis reparo _ , class!”

Severus turned a withering glance on the little teacher, and Flitwick wisely shut his mouth. The teacher universally accepted as the strictest in all Hogwarts switched his dark gaze fully to Neville. Neville’s adam’s apple bobbed. “I had heard that you were exhibiting increased magical power,” Severus intoned. “I had kept apart from it. I am not your teacher, nor your house-master. However, now you are destroying my classroom again. When did this begin?”

Neville licked his lips nervously. “Well, boy?” Severus snapped. “I expect an answer when I ask a question.”

“Professor Snape…” Flitwick began. Severus had only to hold up a thin hand to stop him.

“A… a few weeks…” Neville whispered. 

“When was your seventeenth birthday?” Severus asked, though surely, he must know the answer to that question. 

“Last Ju...July, Sir.”

Severus nodded slowly. “And have you any idea why this may be happening?” He pressed. Harriet was cringing: she knew, along with just about everyone else, how scary Neville found Severus. The plump young man was pale as a sheet, visibly cringing. He shook his head violently. 

“Hmm,” Severus hummed. “See me in my office before your dinner, Longbottom.” He didn’t wait for an answer, swooping back to his storeroom and leaving a gibbering pile of Neville behind him. 

Professor Flitwick patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe stick to some simple wiping charms for the last few minutes,” he suggested kindly. “Now, everyone else, back to your charms, please!”

Harriet waited until Flitwick was at the other side of the room, praising Pansy Parkinson’s removal of a blob of melted cauldron. Pansy claimed not to see the point of the lesson, however: why clean when there were house elves to do it? In the resulting titter among the Gryffindors, Harriet turned to Neville. “Want me to come with you to see Snape?” she asked. 

Neville turned a shade less green. “Would you?” he replied hopefully. “He’s so scary!”

Harriet gave a little smile. “He’s nicer than he lets on,” she promised. 

Neville looked unsure then, and he didn’t look any more sure when Harriet led him down to Severus’ office half an hour before dinner. “Enter,” Severus called when she rapped on the door.

He frowned as she entered. “Harriet?” he queried sharply. “Why are you here?”

“I came down with Neville,” she explained, waving the reluctant boy in. 

Severus placed his quill back into his red inkpot. “That won’t be necessary,” he informed her. “Mr Longbottom will leave quite unharmed. I wish only to speak with him.”

“I think that’s for Neville to decide, isn’t it, Professor?” Harried suggested slyly. 

A long-suffering sigh left Severus’ lips. “Mr. Longbottom, would you rather Miss Potter stayed, or went?”

“Stayed, please,” Neville squeaked.

Severus nodded gravely, and conjured two seats on the other side of his desk. Usually, he didn’t invite students to sit: they were normally in trouble. “Sit,” he commanded. He rested his arms on the desk before him: his left forearm still ached. It would be a long healing process, and he wondered if the Dark Lord was aware that the mark had been removed. “Mr. Longbottom, it is highly unusual for magic to suddenly increase in power so dramatically. It can happen on a coming of age, if the child was bound in some way. In principle, this would be similar to Miss Potter coming into her true form. However, you say that this increase did not coincide with the anniversary of your birth. Would you say it was a gradual increase, or sudden?”

“Professor?” Neville questioned nervously.

Severus ran one hand though his lank hair. “I am not going to reprimand you, Longbottom. That is not the aim here. I am simply curious at the sudden change in your power. I have no motive other than to prevent you destroying the castle around you from lack of control. I am aware that Professor McGonagall and Professor Lupin are already working on this with you, but I have always believed that the key to solving a problem lies in understanding it.” Severus couldn’t believe he was trying to have a rational conversation with Neville Longbottom. “So, I ask again, was the change sudden, or gradual?”

“Sudden, Sir,” Neville replied nervously. “I just woke up one morning and when I tried to cast a spell, I was buried under flowerpots.”

Severus nodded and fell into silence for what felt like an interminable time to the two students. Neville shifted uncomfortably as Severus slowly nodded to himself. “The most likely explanation for such an increase is the result of a magical binding,” he mused. “Not one, perhaps, of the type usually paced on over-magiced children, which will break either at the age of eleven or seventeen. There must have been some event to trigger it. Did you have any trauma, any bad news, or something to make you angry around that time?”

“I… I don’t think so?” Neville offered, his voice still a little shaky. 

“Have you requested your birth records from the Ministry?” Severus enquired suddenly.

Neville shook his head, wide eyed. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but at the time of naming, each magical child has a record created for them. It is an effect of the naming spell. The record is created by magical quill, unseen by human eyes. It records the date and time of birth, the name given, the parents- there are reasons that these records are sealed, as they may show a different father to expectations. They also record the levels of magic present in the newborn. It is this information which feeds into the applications for Hogwarts, along with records of unusual spikes of activity in muggleborn children. I would be curious to see what your levels of magic at birth were. If they were high, it would suggest a broken binding, and if low, would be indicative of a sudden increase in power worthy of further investigation.”

“But I thought you said records were sealed?” Harriet interjected curiously.

Severus inclined his head in agreement. “Indeed they are. However, there are ways to get anything with enough leverage, though in this case, bribery is unnecessary. Any person over the age of seventeen may request their own record, and their own only.”

“How do I do that?” Neville asked, sounding rather curious.

Severus spread his fingers. “You must simply write to the head of the department of records, and make a request. The ministry will send their own owl with the reply, thus ensuring that the information goes only to the intended recipient.”

Neville nodded decisively. “I’ll do it,” he declared.

“I should be interested in the result, if you would consent to share it,” Severus replied gravely. 

“Erm, yeah, of course,” Neville mumbled, suddenly seeming to remember who he was talking to, where he was.

“And Longbottom? Stay out of my classroom until you have control.”

He nodded eagerly, only too pleased to acquiesce. He’d rather never enter the potions classroom ever again. He glanced over at Harriet, relaxed in her seat. “Erm, are you coming, Harriet?” he asked, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“I’ll catch up to you at dinner, ‘kay?” She suggested. Neville fled, shutting the door behind him again.

Severus huffed. “What is it, Harriet?”

“How’s your arm?” she began.

“Fine.”

“What’s happening with Draco?”

Ah. The question she’d actually wanted to ask. “That matter is between myself and Draco,” he replied evenly. In some things, Harriet was as annoying as she’d ever been: she insisted on poking her nose into everything, and becoming tangled in every intrigue. 

“Well, I was the one who got kidnapped and sparked it all,” she pointed out hotly.

“If you would like to know, you will have to ask Draco,” he replied, keeping his voice modulated. “It is not my place to tell you.”

She grunted with frustration. “Why not?” she snapped. “It’s people not telling me stuff that gets me into crap, you know. All the half-stories.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, if you would put some trust into the people around you, and not spring off on half-baked, hare-brained schemes, these things would not happen. Life takes it’s course, Harriet, and I have learned it best not to spring into action without long consideration. Learn from my mistakes.”

“Yeah, because careful consideration would have stopped Zabini going on a kidnapping spree,” she sulked. “I’m not a kid.”

“I never said that you were a child, though you sound like one at this moment. I would not share this information with you if you were seventy instead of seventeen. It is simply not your concern.”

She huffed in frustration, not even saying goodbye before stomping out of the room. 

Harriet avoided Severus over the coming days. It was easy to do these days: she no longer had to visit for occlumency, and Robin usually came just before she went to bed. He’d missed coming a couple of nights, and spent time with his friends again. She missed him, but she knew he needed to go back to a normal life. His devotion to her over the last few weeks had proved his staying power, at least: she didn’t suspect him of sleeping with other women anymore. He simply wouldn’t have had time.

It was three days until she could find Draco alone to speak to him. Increasingly,, he skipped meals, or came, scarfed his food in an un-Malfoy like manner, and left. He wasn’t in the library, and he ghosted in and out of lessons, last to take his place and first to leave. He sat apart from other Slytherins now; whether by his choice or theirs, Harriet couldn’t tell.  

It was in the library that she finally did corner him, late one evening. She was raiding the Ancient Runes section, determined to impress Professor Babbling, who, so far, seemed to view her as nothing so much as a nuisance. She saw Draco’s shadow dart past, and, craning her head, saw the telltale platinum head amongst the medical texts. Quietly, she stood, padding over to where Draco stood on tiptoes to reach a high shelf. He flinched when she tapped his shoulder. He looked over his shoulder to glare at her. “What, Potter?” he hissed.

“You used to call me Harriet,” she said accusingly. 

“So?”

“What’s going on, Draco?” she queried. “I barely see you anymore.”

He shrugged. 

“What’s happened?” she pressed. “About the.. the thing with the Headmaster?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said huffily.

She raised her eyebrow, the motion she’d learned from Severus. “Yeah. That’s why you hardly eat, and you look like you’re about to join the ghosts.”

“I had no idea you were so concerned with my welfare.”

Madam Pince had begun shelving books directly beside them, shooting them pointed sidelong glances. Harriet and Draco exchanged uncomfortable looks. “I’m going now,” Draco said, shifting from foot to foot. Harriet nodded, and, detouring to fetch her book and parchment, followed him out. She had to jog a few steps to catch up to him.

“What is it really, Draco?” she queried. “Don’t tell me nothing’s going on, I know more than that. You can’t just fob me off.”

“Why should you care?” Draco snapped, not slowing down.

“I care!” she shot back, wounded. “Whether you like it or not, I’m involved! You’re… well, we’re kind of family, now, aren’t we? I mean, because of Severus…”

Draco growled in frustration. He took a sharp left into a classroom. Harriet carefully shut the door. She hadn’t even turned round again before Draco had begun, his voice low and hissing. “How can you say we’re on the same side?” he ground out. “Not when you hate me for my name- you always hated me for being a… a… Malfoy, and now you hate me for using the Snape name!”

“How can you say that?” she snapped back. “I don’t hate you! Why should I care what last name you have? Okay, I’m pleased it’s not Malfoy, because I’d rather you were a decent human being, not under your father’s thumb, but I’m pleased Severus offered you his name, and it was your choice to take it, not mine!”

“You’re jealous, because the squib doesn’t have it!”

Harriet curled her hands into tight fists at her sides. How  _ dare _ Draco refer to Robin as ‘the squib’? Why was everyone so determined to think of him only as his lack of magic, not who he was? It was like being the ‘boy who lived’ all over again. “His name is Robin,” she snapped. “And what his last name is is his lookout, not mine. He says he might change it to Snape anyway.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “I’m to share a name with a dirty squib?” he asked with a sneer.

Harriet saw red. “Well, perhaps he doesn’t want to share a name with a stuck up, bigoted idiot! No wonder your friends don’t want to be anywhere near you! I’d have thought having the same name as your head of house would have them fawning over you!”

Draco advanced on her, and she regretted moving away from the door as he slowly backed her against the wall. He was taller than her, though not so tall as Severus or Robin, and he loomed over her. Two flushes of bright pink were blooming on his cheeks. “You think it’s easy?” he hissed. “Being disowned by one of the most prestigious wizarding families in the  _ world _ ? Everyone knows that I must have done something unforgivable, but I can’t defend myself, can’t tell anyone what it is, because  _ you _ want to keep your pride! I’ve kept quiet to make your life easier, Potter! And you think the Slytherins will  _ respect _ the Snape name? It’s a muggle name, Potter, or didn’t you know that? Severus is halfblooded! For a  _ Malfoy _ to take a muggle name? It’s unheard of! And then you expect me to be pleased to be linked to a magical defect? You need to be careful, Harriet- if you get pregnant by him, your children may well be defective too! We need more wizarding blood, not less!”

Draco glowered down at her. It was only then that he noticed that she was pressed as hard as she could be against the wall, his hands braced either side of her shoulders. Her face was turned away, her eyes screwed shut. His voice dropped to a low purr. “You’re shaking,” he noted. “I’m sorry, Harriet… I didn’t think.” He brushed his fingers against her cheek. She flinched. “Please… Harriet… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just… angry.” He stepped back, giving her space, but still, she cowered against the wall. He grumbled.

Harriet barely heard him. She didn’t see him. Behind her tightly closed eyes, she could see the dark stones of the cellar in Malfoy Manor. She could see Zabini advancing on her. She whimpered. She couldn’t be strong anymore, couldn’t live it again...

Draco tried talking to her, guilt blooming in his chest. He got no response. Eventually, he took her by the shoulders, pulling her bodily away from the wall. “It’s okay, Harriet,” he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head close to his heartbeat, one hand rubbing against her back.  Finally, her silence broke, and she gave a long, shuddering sob. He muttered platitudes, apologising over and over again. 

It seemed an interminable time until he felt her shoulders soften, tension slowly ebbing from her body. He’d been unsure if he’d been doing the right thing, if he should have gone to fetch Severus instead, but he couldn’t quite bear to leave her alone. Even if he had been the one to frighten her, she shouldn’t be alone, in case she felt even more afraid. “You shouldn’t listen to what I say when I’m angry,” he muttered. “I have a temper. It’s your choice who you should choose to marry, to have a family with, though it is something you should bear in mind. It would be a shame to see the Potter name, the Potter fortune, drift away.”

She glared up at him, still held against his hard chest. Her eyes were reddened, all bright and green and bloodshot. “Is that all you care about?” she asked hoarsely. “The money? Is that what you want? Now you’ve lost your Malfoy fortune, you want mine?”

He sighed. “I don’t like to see wizarding history lost,” he told her, trying to keep his voice even. “You have the Black inheritance too, and that is my family line, through my mother. But I shall have to make my own way in the world, and I will endeavour to be proud of my own achievement rather than that of my forebears.”

“What will you do?” she asked curiously. 

“I intended to train as a mediwizard. My marks are good enough, and Severus is willing to recommend me. In the higher levels, the money and prestige are good. I shall work my way up the ranks.”

“Oh,” she said, puzzled. “I can’t imagine you as a doctor. A lawyer, maybe, or a banker… but, well, you’re not very caring.”

He quirked his lips into a semblance of a grin. “Not very caring? You’re saying that to the man who’s holding you as you have some kind of emotional blackout?” He stroked her hair gently. “I was never allowed to care. Malfoys care only about their own. But now… I can do what I want. And I’m not a goblin- how could I be a banker?”

“I don’t know,” Harriet grumped. Draco had released her and stepped back, and oddly, she found that she missed the closeness. Who would have ever thought that she’d enjoy a cuddle from Draco, of all people? By rights, she should have been disgusted, but it was… nice. Like cuddling Ginny had been nice, last year. Friendly, comforting. But she couldn’t say she was delighted by him ridiculing her lack of knowledge of the wizarding world.  “I didn’t know that only goblins could be bankers.”

Draco looked at her oddly. “Have you ever seen a wizard working at Gringotts?” he asked.

“Bill Weasley’s a cursebreaker,” Harriet pointed out, becoming annoyed again at his one as if he were speaking to a child.

Draco nodded. “Yes, because goblin magic can’t break wizard magic, just like wizards can’t break goblin magic. But that’s different.”

“Whatever,” she replied. “Erm… I’d better get back to my room, anyway. it’s nearly curfew.”

“I’ll walk you back,” he said gently. He was still worried about her. “And I am sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that, trapped you.”

“It’s just… not that long ago,” she explained quietly. “I still have nightmares about it.”

“I can imagine,” he said softly , holding open the door in gallant fashion. “Come on. Both of us need our beds.”


	70. The candle gutters

Harriet and Draco had returned to a truce state. In fact, some might even have called them friends. Draco began joining study evenings in Harriet’s room again: she even asked him along now, rather than him inviting himself. He even helped tutor her in Runes: Draco, of course, had taken the magical sciences at OWL level. It was he and Imogen who were the most help: Hermione seemed frustrated by Harriet’s relatively low level of knowledge. Imogen, particularly, proved a patient teacher, willing to explain things as many times as necessary.

Draco insisted on walking her back to her room if they happened to be late in the library: he did not return to his attempted courting, though he never mentioned Robin, and changed the subject very quickly on the single occasion Harriet brought it up. Neither mentioned their argument again, though Draco did at least assure her that he would not be attempting to ingratiate himself with the Death Eaters again. Everyone but Dumbledore thought it the most foolish of plans, with the only conceivable outcome being Draco’s rather immediate death. He was simply to avoid Dumbledore: it certainly wasn’t hard. All he had to do was ignore Dumbledore's summons: given the decrepitude of the old man, he did not emerge to frighten the students. Most of the lower years seemed to have forgotten he ever existed, and slipped easily into referring to McGonagall as the headmistress. Above the third year, you could still sometimes catch concerned whispers, wondering where the headmaster was. Theories varied wildly: he was hunting down Voldemort, he was recruiting an army of magical creatures, he was developing a terrible magical weapon, even that he was remaking the philosopher’s stone. It was only in the lowest whispers that the bravest suggested that perhaps there was something sinister to his absence, that perhaps, he was dead. To the majority, Dumbledore was immortal.

Harriet had been avoiding Severus quite effectively. She kept her head down during Potions lessons, and he did not call on her. She sent the samples of her work up with Hermione or Ron. Ron even quietly asked her if something had happened between Harriet and Robin, that she was keeping away from Severus so assiduously.

Of course, nothing lasts forever.

 

It was after curfew when she came to him. “Severus, we need you,” Minerva said as soon as he answered his door. He stepped back to let her in. “Please. I know you’ve said you won’t heal him anymore, but Poppy’s done all she can. He’s dying, Severus.”

“He’s been dying for months,” Severus retorted sharply. “Let him die.”

“He’s asking to be killed, Severus,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve summoned his brother from Hogsmeade- he’s come, though kicking and screaming. But Albus is screaming too, and he just isn’t… isn’t dying. Severus, I… I can’t do it. I can’t put him to death…”

“And so, once again, you call on me to do your dirty work,” Severus sighed. “Very well. I do not do this for Albus, though. I do this for you, for Poppy, for Aberforth. For what I care, Albus Dumbledore can die alone, in pain and friendless.”

“You don’t mean that, Severus!” Minerva gasped.

Severus raised an eyebrow. He did. Albus was as two faced as Janus himself, and as demanding a taskmaster as any slavedriver. He was the hero of the wizarding world, the defeater of Grindelwald, the benevolent educator of children. But it had been Albus who placed conditions when a desperate Severus approached him for help: leave his mediwizard training and turn his considerable skills to teaching schoolchildren potions, and most of the schoolchildren dunderheaded. It had been acquiesce to Albus’ demands or continue down the dark path which he’d started, lose himself, lose his humanity and his child.

It had been Albus who had not listened to pleas to move the Potters, to save Lily, when he knew that the prophecy had been heard by Voldemort. It was Albus who had refused to allow him to raise the infant Harriet. Severus thought of what he could have done: given her a loving home, found a way to reverse the spell, or if that had been impossible, explain to the child what had happened, perhaps use glamours to raise her in her true form. It would have been easier having fine-featured Harriet around than James Potter’s miniature. And it had been Albus who’d left her with muggles who hated her, muggles who neglected her. Severus had recently discovered that she’d been left on the doorstep: a child left on a doorstep in the middle of the night in October, awaiting the morning and the occupants of the house. What if she’d been cold? What if, Merlin forbid, she’d woken, toddled off, been killed, snatched, anything? And Albus, too, had sent her back to those people year after year when other families, good, loving, kind families like the Weasleys, would have had her to live with them without a moment’s hesitation. And still, he kept coming back to the image of he and Robin and Harriet living in a small cottage somewhere, undisturbed by the politics in which Albus preferred to meddle. Albus did not care about people. Albus cared about grand schemes and power, not the happiness of a child who never asked to be born. But still, Severus found himself tucking a selection of potions into a bag and following Minerva up to Albus’ rooms. He could not leave a man in agony when he could help, no matter how much he despised Albus at that moment.

The room was close, airless, the candles dimming around the man who raved on the bed. Albus looked like nothing so much as skeleton now; blackened, mottled skin stretching across bones, his hair, once magnificent, thin and seemingly almost translucent. He raved: now muttering, now screaming. Severus saw the relief in Poppy’s eyes as he entered: she was exhausted, her face drawn and pale and her hair falling out of its bun in wisps.

Aberforth stood ramrod straight in the corner, arms folded across his chest as he watched his older brother rattle in breaths between cries. Severus inclined his head in a somber greeting, but said nothing, crossing to the bed where Albus fidgeted and tossed. He bent over the older wizard, his fingers seeking the erratic pulse at his neck.

Albus grasped Severus’ wrist in one bony, icy hand, gripping unbelievably tightly for such an infirm man. “Severus,” he rasped in a moment of clarity. “Severus, you will do it. You will have mercy on me. It would be so easy, Severus, just those words. You have cast the killing curse, you can do it again, I forgive you, just help me to die.”

Severus didn’t answer, taking in instead the state of Albus. He twitched down the bedclothes. He could see the tinge of shadow at the neck of the headmaster’s nightshirt. Poppy told him what he needed to know without prompting. “The curse has spread,” she murmured. “It’s taken his lungs, and his heart is weak, but still, he hangs on. At this rate, it will destroy his stomach before his heart ceases and poison him from the inside out.”

Severus nodded. A painful death indeed. “Can you cast it, Severus?” she asked quietly. He knew what she meant; they all knew. No one needed to say the words. _Avada kedavra_.

“There are better ways,” he replied, turning to the bag he had placed on the table. Carefully, he withdrew the case of syringes he’d had since he was training. They were not used often: most potions worked perfectly well given orally, so there was no call for the pain of a needle. But sometimes, a needle was best. He would not feel it amid his pain. It would be a relief.  Albus was foaming at the mouth, his spittle collecting at his lips. It would take time to get him to drink enough of the potion, time for it to act. Carefully, Severus screwed a needle to the largest of the glass syringes and filled it from a brown bottle. “Somniferum,” he said. “The muggles have something similar, they call it morphine.”

“Somniferum is used for pain,” Poppy said, in confusion. “It makes the patient sleep.”

“He will sleep,” Severus murmured darkly He rolled back the sleeve of Albus’ nightshirt. He was so emaciated that the veins were clearly visible; a boon for Severus, who had been dreading finding the old, tired vessels. He rubbed one to bring it to the surface, then smoothly slid the needle in. He took a breath before depressing the plunger: this dose would certainly kill. Dumbledore’s death would leave Hogwarts vulnerable to Voldemort, who had a fear of the older wizard: a fear now so completely irrational it was laughable. Albus shuddered, his arm only held in place by Severus’ long fingers. This could not go on. Slowly, Severus pushed down the plunger. A bruise was already forming in the crook of Albus’ elbow.

When the full amount was in Dumbledore's bloodstream, Severus withdrew the needle, carefully covering the site of the injection with a small gauze cloth and rolling back down the sleeve. He settled in the chair Poppy had vacated, returning his fingers to the pulse point at the neck.

Soon, Dumbledore fell silent, the poppy coursing through his veins and deadening the nerves. His breathing slowed from the frantic rattle to thin, faint breaths, slower and slower each time. His heart slowed too, his pulse slowly deadening. Thirty seconds, and no breath, the pulse barely discernable. A minute more, and there was no pump of blood beneath his fingers. “It is done,” Severus said, his quiet, solemn voice seeming echoingly loud in the silent chamber. He stood, not looking back at the man who had mentored him for so many years, carefully removing the needle from the syringe and placing them in a small box for cleaning. He packed his things back into his bag.

Poppy had pulled the sheet over Albus’ still form. Minerva had her back to him, her arms braced on the side of the bed. She was silent, but her shoulders trembled. Severus’ dark eyes swept over Aberforth: just as uncomfortable to be here as when Severus had arrived. “My condolences for your loss,” he said softly. He did not wait for a response before he slipped from the room, his heart heavy, pacing out the route back to his quarters.

Perhaps he should have thought of Albus, but he did not. He thought of the thing which had been forefront in his mind for twenty years: he must ensure Robin’s safety. He must mitigate the danger his choices caused to his son. He had to hide Robin.

Severus hadn’t really considered the flaw in his plan: that Harriet was a lighter sleeper than Robin. She woke even as he leaned over her and carefully brushed dark hair out of his son’s sleeping face, just as he had done when Robin was a child. She blinked up at him, and he saw the pale firelight reflected in her eyes. He laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder, squeezing. Robin grumbled. “Robin, you must depart,” Severus said hoarsely. He was met with another indistinct grunt.

“Why?” Harriet questioned.

“Go to sleep, Harriet,” Severus sighed. “Robin, wake up.”

“Wha’s going on?” the younger man asked sleepily.

“You need to go home,” Severus snapped. “I have no idea how long the news can be suppressed.”

“What news?” Harriet pressed, fully awake now, and sitting up in bed. She clutched the blankets tight around her: she had no desire for Severus to find out that the t-shirt she’d worn to bed was ridden high, and she’d gone to sleep with Robin’s hand comfortably nestled between her thighs, the touch oddly reassuring. His cock, which had been hot against her thigh when they slept, had wilted to softness. He was very reluctant to let her pleasure him - he worried that seeing him in the abandon of pleasure would bring back bad memories.

“Dad, what is it?” Robin asked, struggling upright himself. He had less of a problem showing his naked chest, more concerned about the pinched flesh around Severus’ mouth, the unnatural brightness of his eyes.

“Albus Dumbledore is dead,” he said softly. “We will try to keep the news secret for as long as we are able, but Hogwarts is no longer a safe space. Go home, Robin. I will contact you when… if… it is safe to return.”

Both Robin and Harriet stared at him, Harriet with her mouth open. “He… he's dead? Just like that?” She'd known it was coming, of course, but knowing it in your rational mind and actually believing it could happen… well, those were two very different things.

“Yes, Harriet, just like that,” Severus sighed. Even now, he knew that Poppy would be casting all the requisite charms for burial, cleansing and preserving the body. A stinking, rotting corpse would certainly arouse suspicion, and they could not very well bury him in secret. Severus knew that he should be helping, but he couldn’t bring himself to spend another moment in the same room as the shell of Dumbledore. Severus felt… empty. “Robin, get up. Pack your things.”

“What if I say no?” Robin questioned hotly. “Dad, this isn’t just about you anymore. You said yourself, you’re trying to keep it secret. And surely the wards of the castle haven’t fallen because one man has died: they must predate him. I’m not going to cower away in the muggle world and pretend this isn’t happening!”

Severus leaned over Harriet so his face was inches from Robin’s. “You are defenceless, child,” he hissed. “You could be killed instantly by any curse.”

“I’m not a child anymore,” Robin stated bluntly. “Are you sending all the students home?”

“I would say this whether you were five or fifty!” Severus snapped. “Robin, this has nothing to do with your age! This battle, this war, is fought with magic, magic over which you do not have control! If you wish to commit suicide, this would be an excellent opportunity, but I would imagine drinking poison would be less drawn out!”

“You can’t make me go!” Robin hurled back.

“Robin, please…” Harriet interjected, her eyes welling up. “I can’t… I can’t be without you.”

“See!” Robin said triumphantly to Severus.

“That’s not what I meant!” Harriet replied quickly. “Robin, you have to be safe! I can’t watch you die. I’ve watched people I love die, and I can’t be responsible for your death too.”

Severus’ voice was low and even. “Robin, if you will not leave willingly, I will force a portkey on you. You will not be able to resist.”

“I’ll floo back.”

“The floo connection will be broken. It is too easily tracked.”

“Harriet can come with me, then. She’ll be safer hidden.”

“No.” Severus didn’t have to explain himself; they all knew that Voldemort had his ways, and he was determined to have her. Better that she was not where ignorant bystanders could be killed. Better if she hid in the protection of Hogwarts. Even so, there was still that prophecy, still the chance that Harriet was the only one who could kill him.

Severus and Robin stared each other down, their eyes hard. They’d done this enough times before, through all the arguments of Robin’s life. When he could stay out, when he had to come home, what he had to eat and when he had to go to bed. When he hadn’t had an invitation letter to Hogwarts. As it almost always had been, it was Robin who looked away first, defeated. “Can I have some time alone with Harriet first?” he asked quietly.

“You have an hour,” Severus said firmly. “If you’re not standing in front of my fireplace in one hour, ready to leave, I’ll portkey you.” He waited for Robin’s dejected nod, then spun and left, only a faint green echo remaining in the flames. Robin sunk back down onto the bed.

“Robin?” Harriet asked, her voice nervous.

“Come here, kitten,” he whispered, opening his arms to her. She rested her head on his warm chest as he wrapped his arms around her. “Send owls, please?” he requested. “They can find me, and I can respond by the same bird.”

“I tried to send you an owl once before,” she muttered. “She came back with my letter. I thought maybe you sent her back.”

He stroked her hair. “I wouldn’t do that, kitten,” he assured her gently. “Maybe the owl wasn’t reliable?”

“My owl’s very reliable, thank you very much!” she riposted.

She felt his slight shrug, a ripple in his muscles. “Dunno, then,” he said. “Owls have found me before, with just my name. It’s not a common wizarding name, after all.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, realisation dawning. “I sent her to Robin Snape.”

“Well, now you know,” he said, shifting suddenly so his head was over hers. “May I kiss you goodbye, Harriet?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes,” she whispered, winding the arm that was not trapped beneath him about his neck.

His lips were soft against her desperate ones, though he soon went to her level of passion. He’d been aiming for a tender, loving kiss, but she seemed to have something else entirely in mind. “Do we have time?” she gasped, pulling away from him.

“Time?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Time for sex,” she explained with a light blush, only just visible in the candlelight.

“Kitten…” he sighed. “Are you sure?”

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to say so, but she was worried that perhaps this would be the last time… the last time she’d be able to have him so close. Dumbledore was dead, Voldemort was still hunting for her, she had no doubt… the odds seemed stacked. Alongside everything else she’d been doing, she’d been sneaking into the restricted section, researching methods of killing that didn’t use a wand… killing, or suicide. She did not want to be Voldemort’s plaything. “I’m sure,” she whispered back.

“You know how this goes, Harriet,” he told her seriously. “If you want to stop, we stop, okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, running her hand up and down the smooth skin of his side.

Robin was as he’d always been, kissing her as if there was all the time in the world. He wanted to pretend that there was all the time in the world as he sucked her nipple into his mouth, dropped little kisses all along her stomach and carefully slicked his fingers against her sex to make sure she was wet, ready.

Harriet dug her nails into his back as he pressed into her, pulling him closer. He growled as she did: he’d been trying to keep his distance, give her space, and watch her in case she panicked, but he couldn’t resist her plaintive look. He gathered her close to his chest as his hips rocked into her, and she kissed deeply at the junction of his neck and shoulder, pleased to be so close to him.

Robin arrived into Severus’ rooms to find his father stood by the fire, watch in hand. Severus glowered. “There’s a bite upon your neck, and you stink of sex,” he informed his son.

“Thanks for pointing that out,” Robin growled. He was in no mood for pleasantries, and even less in the mood for his father’s acerbic brand of chitchat. Everything screamed at him not to leave Harriet, in case she was taken away from him again.

Severus didn’t feel it necessary to engage in battle. He held out a glass jar to Robin, filled with powder. “What’s this?” Robin asked.

“It’s floo powder,” Severus replied. “Well, after a fashion. It has some extra ingredients. It should minimise the burning when you go though.”

Robin frowned. “I don't understand.”

Severus started resolutely into the fire. “It was Harriet’s idea,” he said. But I've tested it; it works perfectly as floo powder, and I managed to send ice through the fire unharmed. I’ve included the directions to create it, but it does require spellwork, so you'll need to find a competent potioneer to brew it for you.”

“I thought you were my competent potioneer,” Robin said softly.

Severus finally looked him in the eyes. “You know where the public floo in Manchester is, correct?”

“Yeah, round the back of Victoria Station,” Robin replied carefully. “Dad, what's this about?”

“You are not a fool, Robin. Watch for news. You know what you are looking for, and major change in the wizarding world will show in the muggle one, for those who know what to look for. I will contact you as I can, but there is every chance that I will not survive this. You know where to find other wizards. Be careful, you look too much like me to go completely unnoticed. If… if the worst happens, Harriet may still be alive, but in the Dark Lord’s hands. Seek her friends… the Weasley family, Hermione… they will most likely try a rescue attempt. If Draco lives, he too should help: you are all but brothers in the eyes of wizarding law and customs, and he is more fond of Harriet than he would like to show.”

“Dad, please… you can’t…”

“Hush, Robin,” Severus said softly. There were tears shining in the corners of his eyes; Robin’s were outright. Severus braced his hands on Robin’s shoulders. “Would that I had been a better father to you,” he murmured. “Know that I tried, Robin, and if you should have a child, then learn from my mistakes.” He pulled Robin against his bony chest as if he were still a small child: sometimes, Severus forgot that Robin was not the little boy who’d run to him when he would visit. At those times, there was a little frisson of shock when he saw the adult Robin; like a young Severus with the harshest edges smoothed out and rounded. Thank goodness he didn’t have the nose. “I love you. I hope that we will see each other soon, that I am overcautious. But I have done everything to protect you, since before the moment of your birth. I will not stop now.”

“Will you break the floo connection?” Robin choked out.

Severus inclined his head in agreement. “It is best not to have external links to the castle for caution’s sake,” he said. “In any case, it would be nothing but temptation. If you send owls, be cautious of where you send them from, take care not to be recognised. I would that you could perform glamours, but it was not to be. I wish that I could have protected you from this, child.”

Severus’ hand, the bones and tendons clearly visible, stroked across the silk of Robin’s hair. He tried to smile. “I love you. Now go.”

Robin licked his dry lips. His heart felt too big for his chest. “I love you too, Dad,” he whispered. He looked down at the heavy jar in his hand, flipped off the lid and took a pinch of the powder. It was almost turquoise in colour rather than the green of the floo powder. He hesitated a moment, unsure, but his father wouldn’t try to hurt him. He steeled himself, tossed it into the fire, and was relieved to see the usual emerald flames. He looked back even as he spoke the words to take him home.

Severus sighed when he was gone, and, kneeling by the fireplace, closed his eyes to feel the threads of connection. This was one of the most useful things Dumbledore had taught him: how to set and break floo connections without the aid of the Ministry. It was hard when there were many threads, but here, there were few. He took the thin thread that represented distance, as opposed to the thick rope that linked to Harriet’s fire, and spoke the cutting words. Robin could not return now.

He would have stayed before the fire until necessity pulled him away; to teach, to growl, to remove as many points as he could manage. But he was not the only one grieving here. He reached for his own pot of floo powder.

Harriet was curled into a tight ball in her bed, the candlelight reflecting in the green of her eyes. They looked more vibrant than usual, the red around them contrasting with the emerald. She didn’t acknowledge Severus until he lowered himself to the bed beside her and reached out to stroke her hair. She flinched away. “Why?” she demanded. “Why did you have to do it? Why does everything I love get taken away?”

“I’m sorry, Harriet,” he said. He didn’t even know if she meant Robin, or Dumbledore, or both. He had no excuses to give, no words left. He was exhausted. She began to cry in earnest, and, not knowing what else to do, he lay atop the covers beside her, rightly guessing from the smell of sex that hung in the room that he did not want to be under them. He gathered her against him, and this time she let him. He held her until she’d cried herself to fitful sleep. He lay awake, his brain turning over the events of the last hours. He lay awake until he had to rise, easing Harriet’s sleep-heavy form from him and working out just how much pepper-up he would need to swallow before he could face the day.

 


	71. Bacon solves everything

Hermione peered closely at Harriet as she took her seat at the breakfast table. “You look like you’ve been crying,” she told her friend. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harriet said, perhaps more sharply than she should have. 

“You’re not,” hermione countered. 

“Here,” Ron said, leaning across her. “Have some bacon, that’ll make it better.” He scooped up three rashers and dumped them on her plate, then clunked the bottle of brown sauce down next to her. 

“Ugh, Ronald, you’re completely impossible!” Hermione huffed. “Bacon never made anyone feel better!”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to try,” he pointed out before turning back to his breakfast, taking Imogen’s hand in his again, resting them in her lap beneath the table. Personally, Harriet would rather have the bacon than Hermione's prodding. She reached for some bread and constructed a sandwich. 

Hermione, of course, wasn’t so easily deterred. “Tell me what’s wrong, Harriet,” she demanded. “Maybe you should go to see that counsellor, she’s very nice…”

“I don’t need a bloody counsellor, I need you to leave me alone!” Harriet snapped, and immediately felt bad when she saw the shock on Hermione’s face. “Sorry. I’m just tired,” she sighed remorsefully a moment later. “Studying for Runes as well as everything else… I’m thinking of asking McGonagall if I can just drop Herbology.”

“But then you’ll only have four NEWTs!” Hermione gasped. “Honestly, Harriet! Runes is only an OWL, it should be easy for you! You should be working at NEWT level!”

“Remember, we had four years to learn for our OWLs, Hermione,” Imogen piped up softly. “Harriet’s doing it in less than six months. I think she’s doing really well.” Harriet gave Imogen a grateful smile: it may have been a platitude, but it did make her feel a little less stupid.

Hermione fell silent for the rest of breakfast, clanking her goblet down noisily to show her annoyance, but she was grousing as they walked to Herbology, Ron some way behind them. “I don’t know why Ron’s still with that girl,” she snapped. “What does he see in her? She’s such a bossyboots.”

Harriet frowned. “Imogen, bossy?” she asked, confused. If anyone was bossy, it was surely Hermione.

“Yeah, butting in like that. And she’s always coming to our study sessions.”

“Well, yeah,” Harriet replied. “She’s been helping me with Runes, after all.”

“I can do that!” Hermione snapped back.

Harriet sighed. She had no idea what was with Hermione today. “You’re busy,” she said diplomatically. “You’re taking so many NEWTs.”

Hermione begrudgingly agreed as they got to the greenhouse, and Harriet tried to pay attention to the lesson, tried to stop her mind from wandering to Robin. What would he be doing now? Sleeping? Unlikely. Sitting in a lecture or a seminar, most likely, or perhaps serving up coffee and bacon rolls at the little cafe. She wondered if he missed her. She missed him already, even though it was merely hours since she’d seen him. She kept having to drag her attention back to her plants. She didn’t get much done, spending a lot of the lesson staring out of the murky glass towards the castle. She couldn’t say she was productive in her free lesson, either.

Hermione spent lunch with her nose in her book, as usual. Harriet sat, playing with her food. Ron and Imogen hadn’t turned up for lunch at all. She supposed, ruefully, that they were off finding a quiet place for a quick fuck whilst everyone else was absorbed with lunch. Jealousy bubbled in her chest.

Neville sat down next to her. He was almost bouncing, his cheeks in high colour even for him. “Hey, Neville,” Harriet said warily. “How’s it going?” He looked… happy? Why was he happy? Didn’t he know about Dumbledore? She thought McGonagall would have told him. Or was he happy because Dumbledore was dead?

He held out a parchment scroll. “This came at breakfast,” he squeaked. “I think… I think it’s my birth records!”

“Well?” Harriet asked. “What do they say?”

Neville blushed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I… I’m scared. Will you open it for me and tell me? I don’t want to see Professor Snape sneer at me.”

“You wouldn’t prefer Luna to tell you?” she queried gently.

Neville shook his head. “I… I haven’t told her about it. I didn’t want to get her hopes up, you know, that maybe I’d have an answer, that maybe I’m better than, you know, me. I mean, she’s really nice about it...”

Harriet supposed he had a point, though she couldn’t see Luna caring either way. She just seemed to want Neville, no matter how powerful he was. Harriet doubted that Luna would ever berate her for her relationship with Robin either, unlike just about everybody else. Ugh, she had to stop thinking about Robin. It wasn’t helping! She reached out and took the parchment from Neville, carefully breaking the seal and unrolling it.

_ Dear Mr. Longbottom, _

_ Please find enclosed the record you requested. _

_ Kind regards, _

_ Dougall Douglas, Archivist of births, marriages and deaths. _

 

_ Longbottom, Neville Frank born at ten minutes past five in the afternoon of the 31st July 1980 child of Alice Grace Longbottom and Franklin Longbottom. Godparent: Janus Glevem. Magical reading: Good. _

 

_ “ _ Good?” Neville asked, when Harriet had quietly read it out, leaning close so as not to be overheard. “How good is good?”

Harriet shrugged helplessly. “I dunno,” she said. “There must be some kind of scale, you know, like OWLs. Hey, at least it’s not T for troll! I suppose you’ll have to ask Snape. They didn’t include any explanation.”

Neville’s face fell. “Oh,” he said. It was clear that he thought going to see Severus again was quite possibly the most terrifying thing he’d ever done. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Oh, come on Neville,” Harriet snapped. “He’s not that bad! He was nice to you last time, wasn’t he?”

Poor Neville flinched, which didn’t help Harriet’s mood at all. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll take it to him and find out!” She re-rolled the scroll with quick motions and stuffed it in her bag.

“I… I…”

“Stop it, Neville,” Harriet said sharply. She clambered over the bench, leaving half her pudding. She wasn’t in the mood. The excitement of Neville’s post had lifted her spirits for a moment, but his fear had just grated against her every nerve. Why was he being such a wimp about taking a simple note to Severus? What hope did he have against the likes of Voldemort if he couldn’t even face the Potions master? If she was relying on Neville to save her life, she was doomed to a lifetime of bearing children begotten on her by Voldemort’s doubtlessly scaly appendages. “I’m fed up of your whining.” She stormed out of the great hall, eyes following her, burning into her back. She rounded the corner and thudded her head against the wall.

What was with her today? She was snapping at everyone. She really needed to pull herself together before double potions, or she’d end up blowing something up. She wanted to see Robin. She knew that he needed to be safe, that he needed to be kept away from Voldemort, and that meant being kept away from her, but that didn’t make her miss him any less. It could be weeks, months even before she could see him again. Glancing at her watch, she made a quick decision. She turned and made her way up the great staircase.

She’d always loved the owlry: dark and rustly and musty, all feathers and bright eyes catching the gleams of light from the small, high windows. You had to ignore the occasional dessicated mouse, but everywhere had its downsides. She carefully spelled a bench free of droppings and sat down, pulling parchment and a self-inking quill from her bag.

Now she’d arrived, she had no idea what to actually say. What could she say? Nothing had happened. She brushed the end of her quill across her lips thoughtfully. 

Eventually, simplicity won out. She didn’t have much time.  _ I miss you already _ , she wrote.  _ All the same here. No one seems to know yet. _

She called Hedwig down, fishing some owl treats from her bag. She offered the owl the note. “This is for Robin Brandon,” she told her owl, who hooted softly and took the parchment delicately. “He might want to send a reply back, okay? And don’t give it to him when there are other people around.”

Hedwig blinked at her as if to say ‘I’m not a complete idiot, you know’, and spread her wings, soaring up into the rafters and out. Harriet watched her go, irrationally jealous that her owl would be seeing Robin when she couldn’t. She could go and fetch the invisibility cloak, sneak back into the tunnels, apparate to Manchester again…

She stuffed her things back in her bag. She was being stupid- look what had happened last time she’d tried that! She’d outed Robin. No, double Potions it was. She glanced at her watch. There was still fifteen minutes until the lesson started: she’d deliver Neville’s news to Severus. 

She was thwarted, however. Severus wasn’t in his office, or in his classroom across the corridor. She perched herself at her normal bench and pulled out her Runes alphabet. She just couldn’t quite get Ehwaz and Mannaz straight in her mind, and the translation she’d given to Professor Babbling had been returned with a giant red question mark. It had seemed a little odd, discussing (as far as she’d thought) marriage between horses. Apparently, it was supposed to be about the development of the wizarding race.

Other students began to file in. Hermione arrived, plopping into the next bench along. “What was that at lunch, with Neville?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Harriet said, then, quickly, to distract her, “could you check this translation for me? I got Ehwaz and Mannaz muddled again on the last one.”

With a sigh, Hermione held out her hand to take the parchment. “Thanks,” Harriet said. 

Snape stalked into the classroom just as lesson time officially began. Hermione prodded Harriet in the arm with the scroll, making her take it back. “Where’s Ron?” the other girl hissed.

Harriet shrugged, tucking the translation beneath her Potions notes just as Severus turned, rapped his chalkboard rubber onto his lectern, and began to preach the necessity of complete cleanliness in brewing healing potions.

Ron didn’t appear at all for the lesson. Harriet wondered if she should bottle up a second sample of her potion and label it with his name, but she thought it unlikely that Severus hadn’t noticed his absence at all, though he made no mention of it. She submitted only one sample for marking, and, when she went up to the desk to hand it in, handed Severus Neville’s scroll too. The Potions master raised an eyebrow, but took it, unrolling it, casting his eyes across the contents, and dismissing Harriet with a wave of his hand. 

“I’m going to find Ron,” Harriet muttered to Hermione as they packed away. “You coming?”

Hermione glanced around. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I can’t believe he didn’t show up- he’s going to be in so much trouble!”

The last few students were leaving the classroom; Harriet whispered anyway. “You’d have thought he could cut Ron some slack, since he’s our friend,” she muttered.

“Your friendships have no bearing on my discipline,” Severus drawled, his back to them as he wrote the next morning’s lesson on the blackboard. “I would suggest, however, that you might find Mr. Weasley packing his belonging in Gryffindor tower.”

“What?” Harriet yelped. “Severus, what’s going on? Did he get himself expelled?”

Severus turned to lay his stick of chalk back into the pot on his desk and wiped his dusty fingers off on a cloth. “Watch your manner of address in my classroom, Miss Potter,” he warned. “He has not been expelled. I believe, however, that he will be moving to alternative accommodations.”

Harriet had the unwise and quite sudden desire to stick her tongue out at her professor. Luckily, she contained it. Quite beside the fact that it would undoubtedly earn her detention, the situation didn’t call for levity. What did he mean, Ron was moving? What had happened? Stupidly, Harriet wondered if he, too, had changed sex and needed his own room. She sighed at her own stupidity. Of course he hadn’t.

“Sir?” Hermione asked quietly, wide-eyed. Harriet goggled as Severus actually smiled at her, crossing the few feet between them to cup Hermione’s cheek in his hand. “Do not fret, Hermione,” he said softly. “There is nothing to worry about.” His head was bowed down to be closer to hers, and Harriet had never imagined that he could look so… tender. “I am sure he will share his news. I know you will be supportive.”

“Severus… you’re scaring me,” she whispered. “What’s he done?”

“Don’t be afraid, Hermione. It is not necessarily a bad thing. Now, go to find your friend.” He stepped back, though Harriet had wondered if he was about to kiss Hermione. “I have marking to do.”

Harriet rolled her eyes and grasped Hermione’s wrist, dragging her slightly befuddled friend with her. “What is it with you when you’re around him?” she muttered. “It’s like you just check out of reality.”

Hermione shook her head slowly, and pulled out of Harriet’s grip as they made their way up to the tower. “I don’t know,” she said with frustration. “I just get to be me when I’m with him… I don’t have to worry about anyone else.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, the age thing?” Harriet knew to be careful about giving too many details out in the corridor.

“Age doesn’t matter,” Hermione said firmly. “I’m more interested in his intelligence than his age. Wizards live a long time anyway, so it’s not such a big deal.”

“So you think this is a lifetime sort of thing?” Harriet questioned before she gave the Fat Lady the password. “You reckon it’s going to be happily ever after?”

Hermione shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. Unless he gets bored of me.”

“Or you get bored of him.”

“No,” she said with a smile and a distant look in her eyes, “that’s not going to happen.”

The pair wove through the common room, filling with people snatching some social time after lessons, and made their way up the stairs to the boy’s dormitories. Before they reached the door to the seventh year’s room, Neville slipped out. He immediately blushed and looked down when he saw Harriet. 

“Hey, Neville,” she said guiltily. “I… I, erm, gave your note to Professor Snape, but he didn’t say anything.”

“Thanks,” Neville muttered. 

“And, erm… I’m sorry. You weren’t whining.”

“I know I whine,” he said softly. 

“We all get scared,” Harriet replied, trying to be kind. After all, who could blame Neville for being scared of Voldemort? He, like Harriet, probably had a good idea that his death was a distinct possibility. “Erm, is Ron in there?”

Neville nodded, a minute movement. He still had his gaze fixed on the floor. “Yeah. He won’t talk to me.”

“Not to worry, Neville,” Hermione said with forced joviality. “I’m sure it’s nothing personal. We’ll see what’s wrong.” She pushed open the door again.

Ron wasn’t packing: his things were still out on his bedside table, his clothes hanging haphazardly out of his trunk. He was tucked in the window seat: it had been Harriet’s favourite place to sit when she was awake at night. There was a lovely view of the lake from that window, and today, the giant squid scudded under the water, leaving wave-like ripples. “What’s up?” she asked. Ron didn’t turn around.

“Ron?” Hermione asked, creeping forward. “What’s wrong? Why weren’t you at potions?”

Ron finally looked away from the window. His freckles stood out on his ghost-pale face. “Mum’s going to kill me,” he informed them, wide eyed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, I feel a little mean leaving that cliffhanger there... poor Ron...


	72. Cake cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... cookies for everyone who figured out Imogen's pregnant. I suppose I shouldn't have ruled out expulsion! I got more reviews on the last chapter than I have after posting any other single chapter- it was lovely to hear from you all! Hopefully you enjoy this chapter too.

“Why would your Mum kill you?” Harriet demanded. “Are you going to tell us what’s going on, Ron? Why weren’t you at potions? And Severus said that you should be packing. What’s happened?” She barely took a breath between the questions, not giving Ron much of a chance to respond. Not that he looked like he was going to offer a reply to any of them; he just held his head in his hands and whimpered.

Ron ran his hands through his hair. He looked like he’d done that a lot lately; it was mussed, going in all directions and standing up in places. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he groaned.

“What idiotic thing did you do this time?” Hermione pressed. “Are you going home? What’s happened? Did you punch Malfoy? Have you been suspended? Expelled?” Harriet cringed to hear Draco called ‘Malfoy’, but now didn’t seem the time to bring it up.

Ron looked up at them with wide and frantic eyes. “Imogen’s pregnant,” he whimpered.

“What?” Hermione burst out before Harriet had even really processed Ron’s statement. Ron whined again and clutched his head in his hands. “What are you going to do, Ron?”

“Get married, I s’pose,” Ron mumbled, his voice muffled by his hands. “As long as Mum doesn’t actually kill me… or Im’s parents don’t kill me.” He groaned again. 

Harriet perched in the window seat next to him. This all seemed horribly familiar. “So… she’s going to keep the baby?” she asked quietly. “Cause there are potions and stuff, you know…”

Ron looked up. “Babies,” he said hoarsely. “There’s three of them.”

Harriet and Hermione yelped in unison.

“Three?” Hermione eventually asked weakly. “Do you mean… triplets?”

Ron nodded.

Hermione perched on the edge of Dean’s bed. “Did you mistake a fertility potion for contraceptives, or something?” she enquired, still sounding quite bewildered.

Ron shook his head sadly. “No, she was taking the contraceptive potions, but apparently there was some kind of mix-up with the hospital wing potions, and it wasn’t actually a contraceptive potion, or something… I don’t really understand...”

Harriet winced. “Yeah, I know about the potions,” she said.

Ron jerked upright “You’re…” he began, then trailed off. “I mean, are you…?”

Harriet shook her head. She could feel Hermione’s gaze hot on her, but she didn’t look at the other girl. Ron didn’t need to hear about her problems right now. “No, I’m not pregnant. But really, triplets? I don’t think I’ve ever even met any triplets. Is it because there’s twins in your family, or what?”

Ron shook his head slowly. “Nah,” he said. “Snape explained it, but I didn’t really understand…”

“Wait,” Hermione interrupted, “ _ Severus _ told you? What’s he got to do with it?”

“He’s a midwife,” Harriet said before Ron could respond. She was amazed that Hermione didn’t know that. How did that little fact about his past not come up in conversation with her? It was such an incongruous image that one could not fail to remember it, and Hermione remembered everything. “Go on, Ron.”

“Erm, yeah…” Ron looked as though he’d lost his train of thought. “They’re, um, identical, which means that it was only one, erm, egg, and it split and it’s really rare, apparently, and has something to do with magical power levels...”

“But Imogen’s going to have them?” Harriet pressed. “Like I said, there are magical ways to, well, get rid of pregnancies, and there are muggle ones too, so it could just be nothing, a blip...”

Ron shook his head. “Snape… he… he kind of offered, but he also said that it was technically illegal, so we shouldn’t talk about it if we did, and… oh, I don’t know. It seems wrong. They’re people, you know? Just really tiny ones. We were all babies once.”

Harriet nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. The thought of possibly having Zabini’s kid was awful, but had she known without doubt that it was Robin’s… well, she wasn’t sure she would have taken that potion. She hadn’t known that it wasn’t legal, though. She wondered if Severus had courted trouble with the law by giving it to her. She was even more relieved now that she didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want anyone to know: what if she’d gotten in trouble for murder or something? Or Severus. Could he have lost his job? Been imprisoned? She shuddered to think of it.

Dean and Seamus picked the worst moments to blunder in, as always. “Hey, hey, Ron, got two lovely witches with you?” Seamus chortled with a wink. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep your secrets from Imogen…”

“Oh, shut up,” Ron growled. The paleness of his face was highlighted by two red splotches high on his cheeks now as anger rose in him. 

“Someone’s grumpy,” Dean protested with wide eyes and a grin from ear to ear. “What bit you?”

Ron sighed. “Can we go somewhere else, please?” he demanded.

They walked in silence down to Harriet’s room, not even needing to debate the location. It was their default location to be alone, just the three of them. And, of course, cake was a powerful motivator. Requesting food from Dobby was the first thing Harriet did. “Here,” she said, passing a large chunk of chocolate cake to Ron, “Bacon may make everything better, but so does cake.” 

Ron smiled weakly at that. “Thanks, mate,” he said. 

“We should send some cake for Imogen. Or bring her here,” Harriet continued. 

Ron shook his head. “She’s with Fay and Lupin,” he replied. “Snape said I should go away, pack my stuff up, since we’ve decided to get married… Pack, and decide what to say to my parents.” He swirled a finger morosely in chocolate icing, then licked it up. 

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re getting  _ married _ !” she exclaimed. “You’ve only just turned eighteen! When will the wedding be, anyway?”

Ron shrugged morosely. “Soon, I s’pose,” he said. “Before Im gets too big: she’s already got a bit of a tummy and she’s not even at three months yet. I thought she’d just been eating a lot…”

Harriet tucked her legs up under her. “Ron… you do want to marry her, don’t you?” she asked. “I mean, you’re not just doing it because of the babies, right?”

“I dunno,” Ron sighed. “I hadn’t really thought about it, you know? I mean, yeah, I want to marry her, I love her, but I thought it’d be in a few years. Not while we were still at school. I thought we’d get to have our own lives first, not changing nappies or whatever.”

Harriet nodded sympathetically. “We’re here for you, mate,” he said. “You’re doing the right thing. And, for what it’s worth, I think your mum’ll probably be pleased. She loves kids, doesn’t she? She had seven , after all.”

“Yeah,” Ron said morosely. “Think she might be kind of pissed that her youngest son was the first to have kids, though. And Bill and Fleur are engaged, saving up for their wedding. It’s like I’m stealing their thunder, you know?”

Hermione gasped. “Yes, how will you pay for it?”  she questioned. “Weddings are quite expensive!”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Harriet cut in swiftly, since Ron was starting to look decidedly green, and she didn’t want him fainting. “I’m sure we can figure something out.” Even if she paid for the entire thing, she thought to herself.

“I don’t even have a ring for her,” Ron whimpered. “I didn’t even really get to, you know, propose… it just all happened really fast, and the next thing I knew, we’d said we’d get married. Do I have to ask her dad, do you think? I don’t really know how this stuff works. Her parents are muggleborn, do muggles ask the dad?”

“Well,” Hermione said authoritatively, clearly ready to launch into a lecture, “they always do in the films- you know, like the BBC period dramas, but personally, I think it’s a bit outdated. I think I’d be pretty annoyed if someone asked my father for permission to marry me- after all, he doesn’t own me!”

“Yeah, well,” Harriet cut in. “It’d be pretty weird for Severus to ask your dad’s permission… they’re about the same age.” 

Hermione gawped at him, slowly turning pink, and Ron couldn’t help a small snort of laughter. “He is not!” Hermione snapped. “ My dad’s older than him!”

Harriet shrugged and continued. “Plus, who would someone ask for me? My dad’s dead. It sounds like a stupid tradition to me. I wouldn’t bother. If Imogen says she’ll marry you, then she’ll marry you with or without someone else’s say-so.”

Ron looked a little bit happier. Harriet had a sudden mental image of herself in a wedding dress- not her own mental image, but the one she’d pulled from Robin’s head, months ago when she tried legilimency. It seemed so strange: Ron, being the first of them to marry, to have kids, when Ron had always been the joker, the childish one. Overwhelming longing for Robin hit Harriet again: it felt like she would never see him again. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d die, and he’d meet someone else, love someone else… A lump rose in her throat and tears prickled at the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t really listening as Hermione started listing all the things considered necessary for a wedding- bells, and organs and acres of netting on dresses. Instead, she picked at a loose thread on the hem of her robes. She wondered about going up to the owlry in case Hedwig was back with a note which she wouldn’t be able to deliver until breakfast, then she felt guilty that she was thinking about herself rather than Ron. It was almost a relief when her wards chimed: it jolted her out of wondering where Robin was.

Hermione broke off her rambling monologue of instruction to look over towards the door as if expecting to see someone on the inside. “Are you expecting anyone?” she queried. 

“Who would I be expecting?” Harriet asked in exasperation. “You know, you could have built some kind of announcing spell into this, so I actually knew who it was?”

Hermione sniffed. “Some people are never grateful,” she snipped as Harriet rose to answer the door.

“Hey,” she said softly to a pale and slightly red-eyed Imogen. “Come in.”

“Do you have Ron?” Imogen asked quietly. “He’s not in the tower.”

“Yeah, he’s here. Come on, we have cake.”

Imogen smiled weakly. “Of course, Ron is wherever the cake is,” she quipped lightly, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Harriet found her own eyes being drawn to Imogen’s midsection: she immediately felt silly. In the voluminous school robes, there was no way she’d see any change. Not yet, anyway: Harriet had no idea how big a woman pregnant with triplets would actually get. She’d barely seen any pregnant women, since she didn’t get out much at the Dursley’s, and there weren’t examples at Hogwarts… at least until now. 

Ron had stood as soon as Imogen stepped over the threshold. “Is… did you get everything sorted?” he asked quietly. Imogen nodded, then shrugged. “I told them,” he continued, nodding towards Harriet and Hermione. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Hermione looked up with an overbright, huge smile. “Congratulations!” she exclaimed brightly.

Imogen looked at her like she’d run mad. “Erm, thanks,” she replied. 

“So, when’s the wedding?” Hermione pressed.

Imogen blinked in confusion. “We haven’t set a date yet,” she replied. “We only found out for sure at lunchtime, so we haven’t really had time to plan anything.”

“Well,” Hermione replied, her smile becoming tight, “You know where I am if you need me! I’d be happy to help. You’d better make it soon, though, or you won’t fit into wedding robes: a dress is probably out already! You’ll show far too much.”

“Hermione,” Ron said, sounding hurt. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“Oh, fine!” Hermione said huffily, standing. “I’ll go then, if I’m not wanted.”

“I didn’t say that!” Ron protested, but Hermione had already shouldered her bag and flounced off.  Harriet almost thought she looked… upset. But Harriet couldn’t figure out why  _ Hermione _ should be upset: it wouldn’t be her changing nappies on three babies at once. 

“I’m sorry,” Imogen said quietly. “I didn’t want to create a problem.”

“You didn’t,” Harriet replied. “Do you want some cake?”

Imogen looked down sadly at her midriff. “I shouldn’t,” she said morosely. 

Harriet put a bit of cake on a plate. “Don’t listen to Hermione,” she said. “Eat the cake.”

The three missed dinner, but they were a sombre party. Harriet was still engrossed in thoughts of Robin, and it didn’t help when Imogen tucked herself next to Ron on the sofa, his arm draped around her shoulders and his chin resting atop her head. The pair discussed how best to break the news to their respective families.

“Harriet, will you come when I go to see Mum and Dad?” Ron asked. “I reckon they might be less likely to murder me if there’s a witness, and it’s not like they’ll kill you.”

Harriet looked up, surprised. “If you want,” she said with a little frown. “Well, if I’m allowed out, that is…”

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed out?” Imogen asked curiously. 

Harriet shrugged. “You know, the whole Voldemort thing. The teachers are pretty cautious about me being away from the school.”

“But weren’t you away sorting out your inheritance not long ago?” Imogen pointed out.

Harriet looked around, at anything but Imogen. “That was… complicated,” she said. “It wasn’t really by choice. Yeah. Anyway… ‘course I’ll come, Ron, if you want me to.”

Imogen sighed. “I’m really nervous about meeting your family,” she said. “There’s so many of you. It’s a bit daunting for an only child.”

“Aww, they’re okay,” Ron protested. “You know Ginny. And you remember the twins, don’t you?”

“That’s what scares me,” Imogen said darkly. Harriet couldn’t blame her. The twins were probably enough to terrify anyone. At least she didn’t remember what Percy had been like.

Ron and Imogen went back to Gryffindor tower not long after dinner finished: it had, apparently, been decided that they should stay in dormitories until they were actually married, at which point they’d be given a room together. McGonagall, apparently, disapproved of unmarried couples sharing a bed, though it was obvious what Ron and Imogen had been up to in any case.

Harriet traipsed up to the owlry, but Hedwig wasn’t back yet. She supposed it was a long flight to Manchester. She did feel a little guilty: the owl would probably be making the trip quite a lot. She should probably try to make her messages a little more worthwhile in future, for the sake of the bird. Feeling slightly lost, and not able to settle to do any work, she found herself contemplating visiting Severus. He’d probably just refuse to tell her anything and make her more frustrated, but she decided to at least try. It wasn’t like she was getting anywhere with her Transfiguration practice: all she was doing was staring at the chair she’d transfigured from a book and timing how long it stayed a chair: her current record was somewhere in the region of five hours. She couldn’t tell exactly, because it had changed back whilst she was at lunch. 

Severus raised his eyes from his book as she stepped from the fireplace. “Be quiet, please,” he instructed. “She’s exhausted.”

Harriet couldn’t help but goggle at the sight of Hermione, curled into Severus’ lap with her head against his shoulder, eyes closed. Her hair fanned across her face and her cheeks were flushed. One hand fisted into the front of Severus’ white linen shirt. He had one arm around her, and with the other, he set his book aside. “I gather that there was an argument of some description with Mr. Weasley?” he queried, his voice low. Hermione slept on. 

Harriet managed to tear her eyes away from the sight of Hermione sleeping in Severus’ arms. “Erm, well, not really. Hermione called Imogen fat- at least, I think she did, and Ron got a bit defensive.”

“Understandable,” Severus commented. “Hermione does let her temper get the better of her at times. It is a fault which she knows requires attention. Although Miss Langley will become rather large, given the triple pregnancy. Hermione will not be the last to say it.”

“Er, yeah,” Harriet agreed quietly. Severus didn’t seem to mind her being here, so she curled into the cushions on the sofa. “She’s really going to have triplets? I don’t think I’ve ever actually met anyone who’s a triplet.”

“It is highly unusual,” Severus agreed. “It is compounded by the fact that the triplets are monozygotic- identical, if you will. The situation is the only reason I have become involved: Poppy Pomfrey wished to send the girl off to specialists at St. Mungo’s, but Imogen herself was quite determined that she wished to stay here and complete her education. Poppy is by no means an expert in magical pregnancy, particularly in multiple births.”

“I thought pregnant girls weren’t allowed to stay at Hogwarts,” Harriet said. “Didn’t you tell me that, ages ago?”

Severus inclined his head. One of his hands absently petted Hermione’s bushy hair. “Under Albus, they were not,” he allowed. “However, we are no longer subject to the whims of Albus Dumbledore. Given the circumstances, Professor McGonagall is willing to allow Miss Langley to remain at the school, providing she and Mr. Weasley marry.”

“Oh.” Harriet replied. Then, after a moment’s thought, “Would I have been allowed to stay? If I hadn’t taken the potion?”

“I would have fought for your right to your education,” Severus said firmly. “I cannot predict what the outcome would have been, however. Had you been expelled, I would have handed in my notice.”

“Really?” Harriet said, shocked. Hermione shifted a little in Severus’ arms. 

The professor soothed her and held a finger to his lips to remind Harriet to be quiet. “I would. I came close to handing in my notice over the headmaster’s blatant disregard for your safety. I resigned from the Order so I would not be compelled to do the bidding of Dumbledore.”

Harriet bit her lip. She knew that; knew that he wasn’t part of the Order anymore, but given that she’d been eavesdropping to gain the information, didn’t think she should mention it. Severus continued, his voice gentle. “You are as important to me as if you were my own child,” he informed her. “I took this job to protect Robin, and I would leave it to protect you.”

Harriet shifted uncomfortably: Severus’ words made her feel very exposed, somehow. Like she might cry. She still hated how easily she wanted to cry. “I miss Robin,” she said, to explain away her discomfort. 

“That is to be expected,” Severus replied seriously. “You have spent much of your free time together, these last months, and you have been through great trauma. It is not surprising that you saw him as a comfort through it. I did not send him away to spite you, you understand, Harriet, I sent him away because I worry that the connection between his flat and the school could be tracked, or broken, and he would be found, or trapped here.”

“Couldn’t he have stayed until news got out?” Harriet asked plaintively. 

Severus raised his eyebrow. “If I were an under-cautious man, I would not still be alive,” he drawled. 

Harriet studied her tights-clad feet. “Do you think we’ll die?” she whispered. 

Severus looked at her sadly. He did not insult her intelligence with platitudes about life ending for everyone at some point, nor did he give her false hope. “I believe it to be a possibility we should not ignore,” he replied. “I also think that you must decide what you will do if you are recaptured by the Death Eaters.”

He almost held his breath as she turned it over in her mind. It was a subject he had wished to broach for a while, but he’d been too wary of her volatile emotions, and of Robin’s reactions. “I’ve been looking for ways to kill myself that I could use,” she said quietly. “I’d assume they’d take my wand again, and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t leave me with a nice suicide potion. But I can’t find much. It’s a pretty rare situation.”

Severus would probably never have revealed this to a student in any other situation, particularly one with Harriet’s current mental state. “Wait as long as you can bear,” he advised. “If there is anyone left who can mount a rescue, they will. But if it is too much…” he fell silent for a moment, absently twirling one of Hermione’s coarse curls between his fingers. “If it is too terrible…  _ Avada _ is a spell that can be cast wandlessly with relative ease, and if you are alone, the spell will turn on you, killing you. If you were alone with the Dark Lord… well.” He did not complete the sentence. They both knew what he meant. If Harriet had enough hatred in her heart, she could cast it. But if there was even a shred of doubt, it would not work. And if there was a shred of hope that she could be rescued, she would not be successful. Without intent, they were just words.

“Really?” Harriet asked wide-eyed.

Severus nodded. “The killing curse is older and darker magic. It is possibly the most pure magic, for death is the most natural of states. It is merely difficult to cast because the caster must truly mean it,” he murmured silkily, his voice low. A candle on the mantel guttered out, dropping the light levels in the already shadowy room a notch.  “It is not, however, a spell which requires finesse. It is pure power. It draws on the power of the world, the power of nature and magic, not the power of the witch or wizard. Probably even Robin could cast it, if he truly meant it.”

“Have you ever cast the killing curse?” she asked. 

“Twice.” He stared into the fire. “The second time was not so many weeks ago, to kill Bellatrix Lestrange. The first… her name was Marjorie Lanes. She was a muggle. She had been tortured, she was in excruciating pain.”

“So you killed her for mercy.” Neither Harriet nor Severus had noticed Hermione wake, but her eyes were open, reflecting the firelight. 

“Yes,” Severus agreed with a sigh, looking down at her. “I killed her because she would have died in any case, hours later, in agony. And the Death Eaters praised me for it. I was known more for my more indirect, subtle methods,  so to see me using the killing curse… it reinforced the idea that I was capable. Albus… Albus asked me to use it on him. I could not. I poisoned him.”

Hermione gasped. “Dumbledore’s… dead?” she asked.

Severus held her closer, to comfort her or himself, he was not sure. “Yes, pet. He died last night. This is not news which should be shared amongst your peers. We must use the time that we can keep the secret to plan, to prepare, but it cannot be long now.”

Silence dragged on heavily. “I’m frightened,” Harriet whispered. She was jealous of Hermione at that moment: she wanted a cuddle, even if it was from Severus. 

“So am I,” he admitted quietly. 


	73. Spreading the news

Ron tugged nervously on his robes. “Oh, Merlin, I’m going to be in so much trouble…” he muttered. 

“You’ll be fine, Ron,” Harriet reassured him. “They might be disappointed, but it’s going to be fine. Just think how Imogen must feel.”

“Oh. yeah,” Ron replied, still tugging and wiping his sweaty hands. Imogen would wait in the Headmistress’ office until Ron had explained, then ask if she could come through to meet them. It was what they had agreed, and what would happen later, in reverse, with Imogen’s parents. She, though, would go alone. Ron, at least, had some support from Harriet. 

Ron turned to her. “I’ve been meaning to ask… when we get married, would you be my second?”

“Your… second?” Harriet asked. “Second what?”

“Yeah. You know, the wizard… erm, witch… erm, whatever… the person who stands up with me, and witnesses the wedding?”

“Oh, like a best man,” Harriet replied. “Er, yeah, sure. Do I have to make a speech, though?” She’d never been to a wedding, but sometimes she’d been allowed to watch whatever was on television at the Dursleys, including Aunt Petunia’s programmes. She kind of knew how weddings went… well, muggle ones, at least. 

“I think so,” he said. “Do you think ‘Mione’ll mind? That I asked you and not her?”

Harriet shrugged. “Dunno. Shouldn’t we go?” The two were stood in front of the Headmistress’s fire like a pair of lemons. 

“Yeah,” Ron said, nodding once, briskly, and straightening his school robes. “I’m going to be a dad. I need to deal with this..”

“You should talk to Severus,” Harriet suggested. “He was only nineteen was Robin was born, and he didn’t expect it either.”

Ron looked about as green at the prospect as the floo powder in his palm. He shuddered “No thanks! I’ll be seeing Snape quite enough if I go with Imogen to her checkups!”

Harriet shrugged. “Your choice.” Ron finally tossed the powder into the fire. 

Mrs. Weasley sprang up from the kitchen table the moment Ron cleared the fire, and by the time Harriet had followed, she had her youngest son by the shoulders. “Oh Ronniekins, what have you done?” she cried out. “Another floo-call from the school, but they said you had to tell me yourself! Have you been hurt? Is something wrong?”

“Mum, mum, I’m fine. Let me go!” Ron insisted. 

“What is wrong, Ron?” Arthur asked. “Why did I have to leave work early for this? And hello, Harriet. It’s nice to see you.”

“Hi, Mr. Weasley,” Harriet replied.

He smiled. “I think by now, you could probably call me Arthur,” he told her kindly. “Now, both of you, sit down. What’s going on?”

Molly finally released Ron and all but shoved him into a seat at the table, where he twisted his hands nervously. “Well,” he said. “The thing is… you see…”

“Just say it, Ron,” Harriet sighed. She couldn’t bear the terrified look on Mrs. Weasley’s face any longer, and she really didn’t think they’d be as angry as Ron seemed to believe.

“Okay.” Ron took a deep breath. “Can you let me say it, and not interrupt in the middle? And maybe not hit me when I’m done?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said softly, patting Ron’s hand.

“Go on, son,” Mr. Weasley added. 

Ron nodded, nibbling at his lip. “Okay. Well… I’m going to get married. I’m not really sure when yet, but soon. And... I’m going to be a dad.” He bowed his head with a wince, as if waiting for missiles to come flying through the air.

“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “Is that all? I thought you’d been expelled.”

“So did I,” Arthur commented mildly. “Well, it’s not ideal, son… I’d have preferred you’d waited until you were working, and I’d have liked to have met the girl first, but what happens, happens. After all,” he said with a sidelong glance at his wife, “it’s easy to get carried away, forget a dose of the potion…”

“I’m just pleased you’re stepping up and marrying her,” Mrs. Weasley agreed with a firm nod. “So, what’s her name?”

Ron looked bewildered. “She’s called Imogen,” he replied, shell-shocked.

“Gryffindor? Or maybe Hufflepuff?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “I hope she’s not a Slytherin…”

“Now, Molly, there are plenty of decent Slytherins, you know…” Mr. Weasley placated.

At the same moment, Ron spoke up. “Oy!” he said. “How’d you know she’s not a Ravenclaw?”

“Well, you’re not that bright, Ronnie,” Mrs. Weasley offered. “Is she a Ravenclaw?”

“No,” Ron admitted sheepishly. “She’s a Gryffindor. But she is really clever. She’s, um… Do you want to meet her? Can she come now? She’s waiting at Hogwarts...”

“Now!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “Oh, but I’ve barely any cake, and the place is a mess…”

“Im won’t care about that, mum,” Ron assured her. “She just wants to meet you.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Molly breathed. “Our first grandchild…”

“Ron, aren’t you forgetting something?” Harriet pointed out quietly from her seat at the other end of the table, out of the way.

“Huh?” he asked, already half out of his chair

She raised her eyebrows. “Grandchild?” she pointed out. 

“Oh! Oh, yeah,” Ron spluttered. “Erm… Imogen… she’s going to have triplets.” 

A few beats of silence followed. Arthur’s eyebrows were somewhere in the region of his hairline. Mrs. Weasley eventually squeaked out “Triplets? Three babies?”

Ron nodded nervously. “Identical,” he offered.

“Well, that’ll be a lot of work. Not to worry, we’ll help you. Triplets will be handful though- they’re very strong, magically,” Mrs. Weasley said. “They’ll be levitating their toys before they’re five, mark my words. The twins were a right handful.”

“And with more power than they liked to let anyone believe,” Mr Weasley added. “Don’t let the jokes fool you. They did things as toddlers that you wouldn’t believe.”

“I thought that was just because they were Fred and George,” Ron muttered. 

Oh, no,” Molly replied, shaking her head. “It’s always the case with multiple births, they’re more powerful than single births. Goodness, triplets! Well, I’d already started knitting for when Bill and Fleur have a baby, but I’ll have to start making in threes now! Oh goodness, how exciting! Ron, are they boys or girls? When are they due?”

Arthur patted his wife’s hand. “Perhaps we should meet the poor girl first, Molly?” he suggested gently. “And do try to calm down; we don’t want to terrify her.” Molly beamed at her husband. “Go and fetch her, Ron,” Arthur suggested.

Ron went to the floo, and Molly sprang to her feet. “Tea, we need tea! Harriet, be a dear, go into the pantry- there’s a tin with some battenburg cake in it on the top shelf.” Mrs Weasley grabbed Harriet in a hug as she went to retrieve the requested cake. “It’s good to see you, dear. How are you?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Harriet said. “And you?”

“Oh, silly child, I’m very well, thank you for asking. I’m just so excited! Three babies! Oh, I do hope the dear girl stays well, it’s so exhausting being pregnant, and she’ll be at school...  Oh, Harriet, is she very pregnant yet? When are the babies due?”

“Erm, I don’t know,” Harriet responded. “I’ll… I’ll just get that cake.” She, unlike Molly, could see that Ron had pulled his head from the fireplace, and Imogen would undoubtedly be following through. This seemed a moment on which she should not intrude, so she fled to the pantry for a couple of minutes. She heard Molly’s squeal, the quieter voices of Ron and Arthur, and the near-whisper of a nervous Imogen. By the time she returned with the cake tin, Imogen was ensconced at the table, looking about her nervously. 

“So, tell me about yourself,” Arthur asked. “Are you, by chance, a muggleborn? I don’t think I know your family...”

Imogen’s eyes widened in terror. “Would it be a problem if I was, Sir?” she asked quietly.

Arthur chuckled to himself. “Oh no, my dear, no. Quite the contrary. You see, muggles are something of a little hobby of mine. I do love muggle things.”

A little frown line appeared between Imogen’s pale brows. “Isn’t that a little… demeaning, Sir?” she asked. “After all, muggles are people; they aren’t a hobby. You can’t collect them, like stamps, or play with them like model trains.”

Arthur tipped his head to the side. “You know, my dear, you are quite correct. No one has ever put it that way before. I’ve never even considered it like that before. Very astute of you, very astute. Very well. I collect muggle artifacts. I enjoy tinkering with them. The differences between the muggle and wizarding world fascinate me, you see. I do love speaking to muggles, but you are correct. It is not muggles which is my hobby, but, perhaps, the study of muggle culture.”

Imogen smiled weakly. “That sounds much less offensive,” she replied. “And my parents are both muggleborns. I don’t really know what that makes me. Some people say I am a muggleborn, and others say I am halfblooded.”

“How interesting,” Mr. Weasley said, leaning forward in his seat. “And what do your parents do for a living? Did they find it difficult, do you think, transitioning to the wizarding world after a childhood in the muggle one?”

Imogen looked him straight in the eyes, a smile playing about her lips. “They own a bakery,” she informed him. “A perfectly ordinary muggle bakery. They barely use magic at all- all muggle systems. My mum’s opening a cafe attached to the bakery next month.”

Mr. Weasley’s eyes widened. “Fascinating!” he breathed. “Oh, how I would love to meet them!”

“I think that could be arranged,” Imogen replied with a smile. “After all, I would hope you’d all be at the wedding.”

“Why, yes, of course!” Mr Weasley exclaimed. “Yes. Congratulations are in order, I think. What lovely news!” It was as if he’d entirely forgotten the reason for the visit in his excitement at the idea of having muggles for in-laws.

Molly ferried over cups of tea. “Now then, Arthur, you’ve had her long enough. She doesn’t want to be talking about your silly obsessions.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Imogen said cheerfully. “Thanks for the tea, though!”

“Have a bit of cake too, dear. You’ll need the energy to grow those babies! Three! I just can’t believe it!”

“Nor can I,” Ron said morosely.

“It’s… quite a shock,” Imogen agreed. 

“You don’t look pregnant, if you don’t mind me saying, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. “How far along are you?”

“Eleven weeks,” Imogen replied. “Well, that’s what Madam Pomfrey said, but Professor Snape didn’t think I was big enough- he thinks nine weeks. He says the spells can be a bit unreliable, dealing with multiples.”

Mrs Weasley huffed. “Well, that man just gets everywhere,” she snapped. “A man as a midwife, honestly! You’d be far better off with a nice woman, dear.”

Imogen crumbled a bit of battenberg on her plate. “I want to finish the school year,” she said. “I’m going to take my NEWTs- well, all except potions, because I’m not allowed to brew some of them when I’m pregnant. But St. Mungo’s advice for triplet births is bed rest from the fifth month at the latest. I couldn’t do my exams. With rest and careful monitoring, Professor Snape is confident that I’ll be fine, especially since apparently, I’ve had a really easy time of it so far. I didn’t even know I was expecting, after all- no sickness or anything.”

Mrs Weasley nodded sagely. “You’re like me,” she said authoritatively. “Having babies was like clockwork- barely an ache until I was seven or eight months, and I ran around after my older ones all the same, even with the twins. They wanted me into St. Mungo’s at thirty weeks with them, but no, I had my midwife, and I had them at home just like all the others, just a week early. You’ve got the shape for it too- good hips, not too waifish. Not like Harriet there, all narrow and delicate. I’ll bet you’ve never been regular either, have you?”

“Erm, well, no…” Imogen replied quietly, faintly pink (though not as pink as Ron, who was rapidly advancing towards luminescent). “That’s why I didn’t realise for so long.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded again. “Now, you don’t go exhausting yourself with study before they’re born, will you?” she said firmly. “You’ll need all your strength. You’ve got to eat properly, and get plenty of sleep, you hear? Those are my grandbabies in there. Exams, you can always take again, but you can’t get your health back. Now, you’ll have to tell me what colours you want your baby clothes- I’ll do three different colours so you can tell them apart easily. It’s the only way we managed the first few months with our twins; we’d have had them switched for sure, otherwise…”

“I’m not sure we didn’t switch them,” Mr. Weasley confided. “Bathtime. It’s bathtime that’s the worst. You’re so tired, and you forget which twin is where… I sometimes wonder if Fred is George and George is Fred.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Mrs. Weasley declared practically. “And you’ll need to set a date for the wedding, dearie, if it’s going to be before you show too much. A nice set of dress robes can hide a lot, but not everything, you know.” She glanced down at Imogen’s hands. “Ronald, have you not even given the girl a ring?” she demanded. 

Ron held his hands up. “Mum, we found out yesterday! They don’t have a convenient jewellers at school! And where would I get the money from, anyway?”

“It’s fine,” Imogen insisted. “I don’t need a ring to prove that Ron loves me: he’s here, and he’s being a good man. He could have walked away, but he didn’t.”

“I couldn’t have walked away, Im!” Ron declared hotly. “That would have been awful!”

“Some men would,” Imogen declared firmly. “You raised a good son, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.” Harriet was reminded of Robin again: everything reminded her of Robin at the moment. How Robin had offered to raise her baby that never was, no matter the father. She wondered if he’d known that Zabini had been dark-skinned: he could never have passed off a coffee-coloured baby as his own. She hadn’t really considered that implication at the time. 

“Now, now,” Mrs. Weasley was saying, “I think Molly and Arthur will do just fine, after all, we’ll be family soon. Now, I do have Ron’s grandmother’s engagement ring, if you’d like it… I know it’s second hand, but sometimes the old things are the nicest, don’t you think? I’ll just go and get it…” She stood and hurried off, her footfalls heavy on the stairs. 

Ron leaned across the table and took Imogen’s hand. “For Merlin’s sake, Im, if you don’t want the ring, tell her no! We can get one you’d actually like- I’ll find the money somehow. Offer to scrub cauldrons for Snape in my spare time for cash, or something!”

Harriet personally found it unlikely that Severus would pay anyone to scrub his cauldrons: he had enough first years in detention to do that for free. She knew that she’d lend, or give, Ron the money for a ring, or an entire wedding, in an instant, and his older brothers would probably be happy enough to do so too, though they’d torment him about it. Ron needn’t have worried, though, because Imogen gasped as soon as Mrs. Weasley laid the little piece of jewellry on the table. “My mother had the tiniest fingers,” she said, “but I saw a charm for resizing rings in last month’s  _ Witch Weekly _ .”

Harriet couldn’t help herself leaning forwards to look at the ring, though she sternly informed herself that she shouldn’t be thinking of such things. It was of white metal, silver, perhaps, wrought to look like a branch, and at the top, fanned out into tiny, exquisitely delicate flowers and leaves. The central flower, a little larger than the others, housed a vibrant purpley-blue stone. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” Imogen breathed. “But… can I really have it? It’s so lovely…”

Mrs. Weasley nodded briskly. “Of course you may have it. It’s not my style, much too delicate. I’d break it in an instant. I could never bring myself to sell it, I always hoped that perhaps one of my sons would give it to his bride-to-be. Here, let me go and find that spell to resize it. You’ll have to hold onto it whilst I do, so it goes to the right size, mind.”

Ron held Imogen’s hand again, looking rather flushed and a bit embarrassed. “Are you sure you don’t mind having a second-hand ring?” he asked sheepishly.

She smiled. “It’s a beautiful ring, Ron. And it will make telling my parents so much easier if they can see that this is real, and serious.”

“You haven’t told them yet?” Arthur enquired quietly.

Imogen shook her head. “No. We’re going to visit them after dinner.”

Mr Weasley checked the clock (not the one that showed where everyone was: Harriet still got an odd jolt when she saw her name on that clock). “Well, you’d best be quick, then,” he said. “We’d hate to keep you. But you must come again and meet all the family.”

Mrs. Weasley was bustling back, a glossy magazine open in her hands. “I’ll do a big Sunday lunch,” she promised. “Get everyone here. Charlie can come back from Romania for it, and you can tell everyone then, and we can plan this wedding! Now, dear, hold that ring out to me, yes… that’s it…” she muttered, glancing between the magazine and the ring. Finally she tapped the ring. “ _ Aptus congrus _ ,” she declared, and the metal shimmered oddly, almost as if it was liquid. “There,” she declared. “Now, Ron, you put it on her finger- it’s only right that you do it after all. No, not that finger! Her ring finger!”

Ron, blushing bright red, managed to get the correct finger. “Will you marry me, Im?” he whispered.

“I’ve already said yes, silly,” she said with a smile. “Of course I will.”

Mrs. Weasley turned away to brush a tear from her eye with the sleeve of her cardigan, but Harriet saw. “Well,” she said brightly, turning back. “You’d better all be getting back. And mind what I said about Sunday- I’ll clear it all with Professor Lupin. And mind you invite your parents too, young lady- we shall need to meet them. You too, of course, Harriet. You’re family too.”

“Thanks, mum,” Ron said impulsively, hugging his mother round the middle like he was still a child. “You’re the best.”

It was Mrs. Weasley’s turn to blush a delicate pink. “Oh, hush,” she said. “Now, you look after that girl of yours. She’s going to need a lot of help.”


	74. Sunday lunch

_ I miss you _ ,  _ Robin. _

_ I know that sounds so pathetic. I know why you can’t be here, and I know that I have to be here, because if I’m not here, people might panic, and what if the prophecy really is about me? But that doesn’t make it any easier when I have to go to sleep all on my own. Does that bother you too? Is it weird falling asleep in your flat every night, instead of here?  _

_ How are your lessons going? I’m so used to you just casually mentioning that you have a seminar in Ancient Greek in the morning, or whatever. I don’t know how you manage Latin and Greek and English! I can’t even get my runes sorted out, so I end up with the stupidest translations. I don’t know how I’m ever going to pass this OWL at this rate! Sorry, I’m talking about me again. What else have you been doing? You must have a bit more free time now you’re not spending evenings with me.  _

_ Ron and Imogen are getting really jumpy. They want to tell people about the babies, and getting married, but obviously, all the Weasley’s need to know first. That’s where I’m going soon: to the Burrow for Sunday lunch- all the Weasley clan, and Imogen’s parents and everything. I hope Mr. Weasley doesn’t drag them off to his shed to show them whatever he has in there right now: he’s a complete nutter for anything muggle, and her parents are a muggleborn witch and wizard, and they run a muggle bakery. Not that I know what the difference would be between a muggle bakery and a magical bakery. I don’t think I’ve heard of witches and wizards working in muggle jobs before, though. To be honest, it seems like almost everyone works at the Ministry. It’s a bit of a self-perpetuating system, I suppose. _

_ It’s still weird, no one else knowing about, well, you know. I don’t want to say it, just in case Hedwig doesn’t make it to you. That’s her name, but the way, Hedwig, and she only nipped you because you didn’t feed her. It was a long way; she was hungry! Not to worry, I’m sure she got some mice or something on the way back. I think she’ll get used to the route, I bet she’ll be doing it a lot! I’m trying to do decently long letters, to make her trip worth it, though. It’s a shame your dad broke the floo: even if you couldn’t have come through, we could have sent notes or something. But your dad says floo connections can be tracked, even if they’re not registered with the ministry.  _

_ I’d better go; I want to get this up to the owlry before we go to the Burrow. It feels a bit odd going, you know? Because I’m not a Weasley, and I’m not from Imogen’s family… Even Hermione’s not going. I think she’s a bit put out by it: she said she wants the extra study time, but I bet that was a cover.  _

_ I miss you. In case you hadn’t picked that up. I miss seeing you, I miss hearing your voice and touching you. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about things like that when there’s big stuff going on, like people dying, and there might be battles to fight… but I really miss you in my bed, if you know what I mean. I don’t want to write it down, it sounds sort of cringey written down. I don’t know how to say it in words. I miss you. _

_ Be safe. _

_ Harriet _

 

Harriet laid down her quill with a sigh. Writing to Robin helped a little, but it just wasn’t the same. She wondered if Severus would let her sleep in Robin’s room. She’d ask him later, but for now, she needed to send Hedwig off to Manchester. She carefully rolled up the parchment and sealed it with a blob of wax. Robin’s letter had come back to her on lined notepaper folded up to make its own envelope, written in blue fountain-pen. It was propped against a pile of textbooks, not saying much other than that he was sorry to have had to leave so quickly, that he hoped all this would blow over then they could go back to normal very quickly. Harriet hadn’t felt claustrophobic at Hogwarts since she’d been so suddenly and rudely relocated to Malfoy Manor, but the strange, itchy, restless sensation was creeping in again. At least she’d be able to go out to the Burrow for a bit, though she wasn’t sure being surrounded by so many people was going to help. At least she wouldn’t be the centre of attention. 

She pulled her cloak on over her jeans and long sleeved t-shirt: the castle always took longer to warm than the grounds, and in March, it was still decidedly chilly, particularly in the owlery. There had still been snow flurries a fortnight ago, though the sun was making more of an appearance now, and there were plenty of little snowdrops around the grounds, and even a few brave daffodils. 

She made sure to give Hedwig a good handful of owl treats. “Sorry, girl, you’re going out again. Take this to Robin, please. And don’t bit him. I’ve told him you didn’t mean to. Maybe he’ll give you a bit of bacon or something if you’re nice.” Hedwig groomed through Harriet’s hair with her beak for a few seconds before taking the letter. 

She met Ron and Imogen on the stairs up towards the head’s office. “I’m fine, Ron!” Imogen assured him. “I’m still perfectly capable of climbing the stairs on my own.”

“I just want to help,” he replied.

“I know you do,” she said with a gentle smile. “And I appreciate it. I’m sure I’ll need all the help I can get in five months time, after all.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Hello, Harriet.”

“Hi,” Harriet replied, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up. “You nervous?”

“A bit,” Imogen replied. “There’s just so many of Ron’s family!”

“They’re all nice. Well, except Percy… is Percy coming, Ron?”

Ron snorted. “Not bloody likely. Not unless he’s decided to resign from the Ministry, and even then… well. I’m not sure the twins would let him in. Or rather, not let him out without some serious charm-modifications.”

“Oh, I reckon Percy would look excellent after having tested some of Fred and George’s products,” Harriet commented lightly. “I still have most of the stuff they sent in my wardrobe, perhaps we could post it to Percy.”

Ron snorted. “But then we wouldn’t get to see what he looked like after using them,” he pointed out. 

Ginny was already waiting in the head’s office. “Why have we all been summoned?” she demanded. “What’s going on. And why’s she here?” Ginny pointed to Imogen.

“Be nice, Gin,” Ron admonished gently. “And yeah I do know why mum wants us, but it’s the kind of story best told only once, okay?”

Ginny frowned. “What?” she demanded. “What is it?” She stamped her foot in frustration: not much, but enough to get her point across. 

“Behave, Miss Weasley,” McGonagall intoned from behind her desk, not even raising her head from the sheaf of parchment before her. “The floo powder is on the mantelpiece.”

Harriet was looking around at the portraits of the old Headmasters dozing. She wondered where Dumbledore’s portrait was. Was it being painted now? Would he even have one? Fawkes was looking droopy and bedraggled on his perch: not old, just sad. She stroked a fingertip against the silky wood of her wand: she wondered if the power of a phoenix feather was greater when the phoenix was in the prime of its cycle. Fawkes had certainly been a magnificent creature that day. She took a pinch of powder absently when Ron passed her the pot, and followed him through the fire. 

Mrs. Weasley was in full flight, flicking her wand over her shoulder at a mound of washing up as she bent over the open oven. The smell of roasting meat filled the kitchen. Ron tipped his head back appreciatively , inhaling the aroma with a moan of pleasure. Molly looked over with a wide smile. “Oh good, you’re here!” she beamed. “Fred and George are out in the garden, and Charlie’s just arrived- he’s in the living room with Arthur. Imogen, dear, what time did you say to your parents?”

“Half twelve, like you said,” Imogen replied, but Ginny cut over the top of her.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, going red in the face. “Why won’t anybody tell me?”

The back door swung open, and Bill thumped in. “Hi all,” he said. “Brought Fleur, hope you don’t mind, Mum. we’ve got a bit of news, seems like the best time to share it.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes went wider. “Oh, no, that’s fine, dear. There’s plenty for everyone! Call the twins in for me, will you? Go on, everyone, through to the living room, now!” 

Harriet leaned close to the near-apoplectic Ginny. She felt sorry for the younger girl. “Don’t squeal or shout,” she warned in a whisper. “Ron and Imogen are going to tell everyone they’re getting married.” 

“What?” Ginny yelped. Luckily the sound of the Bill’s holler for his twin brothers covered the sound.

“That’s why I told you to be quiet,” Harriet sighed. “Just… look surprised when they tell everyone.” She gave Ginny a little shove in the small of her back, propelling her forwards to the living room. Her efforts only earned a glare from the other witch. 

Harriet tucked herself in a corner of the living room, sinking into a squashy beanbag. “Okay, Mum, what’s all this in aid of?” Charlie asked. “It’s got to be big if you want me back from the reserve.”

Mrs. Weasley settled primly on the sofa beside Mr. Weasley. “It’s not me who has the tale to tell,” she said, looking pointedly at Ron.

He took a deep breath. He’d paced around Harriet’s room the night before, trying to practice what he’d say. Hermione had complained that he was disturbing her study time, and Harriet’s only advice had been to keep it simple. “I’d like to invite you all to a wedding,” Ron said quietly. He sounded a bit like Arthur, Harriet realised with a start- his voice was lower pitched than usual, and he spoke quietly. Everyone listened, though. “It will be held at Hogwarts a week on Saturday. I’d also like to introduce my lovely bride. This is Imogen, and she’s going to be the mother of my children very soon.”

You could say one thing about the Weasleys: it was very hard to shock them. It was Bill who spoke first. “Well, to think that the youngest of my brothers will be married first!” he said. “My congratulations, Ron… and try to do right by her, for goodness sake!”

Fred sighed dramatically. “Another beautiful witch taken from us,” he informed George. “Whatever shall we do?”

“Harriet’s still available,” George replied seriously.

Fred nodded sagely as the other occupants of the room looked on with raised eyebrows. He stood and dramatically dropped to one knee before Harriet’s beanbag. “Fair maiden,” he began, but that was as far as he got before a laughing Harriet playfully cuffed him around the head. 

“Behave!” she told him. He pouted exaggeratedly and returned to his seat. 

“Congratulations, Ron. And you as well, Imogen. It’s lovely to meet you,” Charlie said softly. 

“I don’t get how this works?” Ginny demanded. “You’re going to get married in two weeks? Whilst you’re still at school? Why?”

“I’d have thought that would be obvious, Gin,” Charlie said. “Really, Ron… we are proud of you. I guess you’re not as much of a berk as we thought. Good on you for standing up to your responsibility.”

Ron was holding Imogen’s hand tightly, and she did looked quite overwhelmed. “Of course I am,” Ron replied hotly. “I love her! And I will love my children too.”

“Wait,” Ginny said. “Imogen’s  _ pregnant? _ ”

“And the penny drops,” George said. “Yes, sister dearest: you will soon be an auntie.” Ginny gawped at Ron and Imogen.

It was Charlie, though, who noticed the oddity. He was watching his mother, almost bouncing with excitement, clearly desperate to share the other news, held back only by Arthur’s calming hand on her knee. “You said children, plural?” he asked. “Are you having twins, Imogen?”

Imogen gave a little smile looking down at her lap. “Triplets, actually,” she said softly. 

The twins looked at each other in delight, then whooped.

The questions came thick and fast, then. Arthur finally stopped everyone long enough to match the names to the people for Imogen, and then it was open season. When were the babies due? (The beginning of September) Were they boys or girls? (They didn’t know yet, they should be able to tell in about three weeks) and, of course, would they be identical?

The excitement was just beginning to subside when the doorbell rang. It was a sound Harriet had never actually heard at the Burrow: in fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever known anyone enter through the front door. Molly clasped her hands. “Oh, that must be your parents, dear!” she exclaimed. Somehow, in the moment she stood, she suddenly became very serious. “Now, best behaviour, all of you! I did not raise you in a barnyard, so you can all act like decent folk!”

Imogen’s parents were not what Harriet had expected. Ron had described them only as ‘nice, I suppose.’ Mr. Langley was very tall, taller than Bill by a few inches. He was also far older than Harriet would have supposed: she’d guess that he was in his sixties. You could, at least, see Imogen in her mother, who looked to be younger than her husband by a number of years, and was softly-spoken. It was her that picked out Harriet. “Now then, you don’t look much like your brothers and sisters,” she noted, seated next to Harriet at lunch.

“Oh, no, I’m not a Weasley,” Harriet said.

“Harriet’s as good as a daughter to me,” Mrs. Weasley declared proudly. “With her own parents so sadly taken…”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Langley said. “It is very hard to lose your parents. How old were you?”

Harriet looked at her in confusion. Who, in the wizarding world, didn’t know her story? “I was a year and a half old,” she replied. 

Mrs. Langley smiled sadly. “How nice for you to have been raised by such a lovely family as this,” she told him. 

Mrs. Weasley gasped. “Oh, no,” she said. “Harriet didn’t live with us as a child, though I wish she had. No, no… this is Harriet Potter.”

Mrs Langley smiled absently. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I have misunderstood something.”

“Would the name Harry Potter mean more?” Harriet tried. “I used to be a boy.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Langley cried, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh, I see! I do apologise! I must admit, we don’t get much news from the wizarding world, except what Imogen tells us. During the war, it was safer, you see… Donald and I are both muggleborn, and we had our daughter to consider… We never really started getting the  _ Prophet _ again, and we only go to Diagon Alley to get Imogen’s school things…” She was jabbering, her eyes darting.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harriet muttered, staring intently at the roast potatoes. “It’s fine.”

Of course, by this point, Mr. Weasley had developed an interest in the conversation. He leaned precariously over the heaped platter of roast pork. “So do you use any magic at all?” he asked curiously.

“Well, we do apparate…” Mrs. Langley admitted. “It’s much more convenient.”

“And little charms- household things,” Mr. Langley added. “I can’t say that a Hogwarts education was much by way of preparation for running a business, mind.”

“We quite agree,” the twins chorused in unison. 

“Not a speck of accounting-” George mourned.

“-and nothing whatsoever about marketing,” Fred finished. 

Mr. Langley nodded. “Just so,” he agreed. “You two run a business, then?”

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, for all your pranking needs!” Fred declared proudly. 

Mrs. Weasley interrupted. “Our guests don’t need to know about your silly jokes,” she berated the twins, and immediately began making loud attempts to make everyone eat more, especially Imogen. 

Mr. Weasley obviously found this an excellent moment to launch back into his own line of questioning. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, were you drawn together by the shared experience as muggleborns?” he wanted to know. 

Mr Langley smiled at his wife across the table. “Not really,” he said. “We didn’t know the other was magical until our wedding night. I’m twelve years older than Susan, you see, so we never met at school. With the statute of secrecy, well…”

Mrs. Langley smiled. “When we got to the hotel room on our wedding night, we both turned to each other and said ‘I have something to tell you,” she reminisced. 

“Fascinating!” Mr. Weasley declared with shining eyes. He quite monopolised them for the rest of lunch. Over dessert, Bill reluctantly shared his news: he and Fleur had finally set their own wedding date for the first of August- he hated to mar Ron’s announcement in any way, he said, and it did seem that Mrs. Weasley had used all her excitement for the time being: her response was happy, though not the over-exuberance of delight that had met Ron’s recent news. 

The Hogwarts students all had to return after lunch, and Mr. and Mrs. Langley departed too, with promises to visit Hogwarts to sort details for the upcoming wedding, and only after Mrs. Weasley had extracted promises of correspondence about all the plans and finer details. It was a tired and emotionally drained bunch of students who tramped down the spiral staircase from the head’s office. They were not more than seven steps from the gargoyle when Hermione flung herself out of one of the niches in the wall, where she’d been lying in wait. “Harriet, you have to come!” she cried out. “They won’t let me see him!”

Harriet, shoved back against the wall by the force of Hermione, was wide eyed. “What?” she asked stupidly.

“‘Mione, what?” Ron asked, not much more coherent. 

“It’s Severus!” she gasped. “Madam Pomfrey won’t let me see him!”

“Madam Pomfrey?” Harriet parroted with a frown.

Hermione nodded, her hair wild and bushy, haloed around her face. “He was attacked by two Slytherin sixth years,” she gasped. “He’s in the hospital wing now, but Madam Pomfrey won’t let me in!”

Harriet took off after Hermione at a run, easily overtaking the other girl and leaving a bewildered Ron, Ginny and Imogen behind. “We’ll, erm, see you later?” Ron called after them. Neither girl responded. 

Harriet burst into the hospital wing some thirty seconds before a panting Hermione. A whimpering Hufflepuff was curled on a bed in the corner, but Harriet didn’t stop for her. She burst straight through to Madam Pomfrey’s office. The matron wasn’t there, but Harriet knew where the side rooms were. The first was empty, smelling of cleaning potions and cotton. She shut the door again and moved to the next. 

“Out!” Madam Pomfrey roared, spinning away from the bed in a swirl of robes and apron. “Out!” Harriet only caught a glimpse of dark hair before the matron had pushed her into the corridor, snapping the door shut again. Harriet stared wide-eyed at the blank wooden facade.

“That was just about the reaction I got,” Hermione offered, twisting the cuff of her jumper in her fingers. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“I don’t know,” Harriet huffed. “What happened?”

Hermione’s voice was small, high with nerves. “I only heard from Draco. Apparently some sixth years called him to the common room, saying there was some kind of emergency, and hexed him. It… it must be bad if he’s here, right?”

Harriet didn’t have time to even think of a reasonable answer before the door snicked open again, and Madam Pomfrey slipped out of the small gap, shutting it firmly behind her again. She stood guard as she glared at the two young witches before her. “Honestly! I can’t believe your cheek, barging into an examination room!”

“Is he okay?” Harriet demanded without a speck of remorse. 

Madam Pomfrey sniffed down at her with disdain. “He will be up and about very soon,” she replied. “He’ll see you, Harriet.” She stepped aside from the door, pushing it open a little, Harriet slipped in, but when Hermione made to follow, Madam Pomfrey held out her arm. “Not you, Miss Granger,” she said stiffly. 

“Why?” Hermione demanded.

“Because Professor Snape will only see Harriet,” Madam Pomfrey replied, giving Harriet a little shove into the room and pulling the door closed again behind her. 

Severus was half-propped up, his head tipped back over the pillows. “Severus?” she questioned softly.

Severus didn’t move. “Hermione is upset,” he said flatly.

“Well, yeah… you’re hurt.”

“How was your trip to the Weasley’s? Did everything go as expected?” 

“Severus!” Harriet admonished. “Never mind the Weasleys! What happened to you?”

Severus grunted in annoyance. “There is some ill-feeling in Slytherin about my defection from the Dark Lord’s camp,” he replied. “The emergency bell was pulled in the Slytherin common room. Bruce McNair and Lyall Rowle set upon me immediately. I was stupid: I was not so much on my guard as I should have been.”

“What did they do?” Harriet asked with sick curiosity. 

“A motley collection of minor hexes, for the most part,” Severus admitted. “One of the dunderheads had the bright idea of levitating a statue and slamming it into my back, however. It will take at least until morning for the bones to heal fully. It is nothing for you to concern yourself over.”

“Someone hit you with a statue, and I’m not meant to be concerned?” Harriet demanded. “What’s happening to them? They deserve to be hit with statues!”

Severus raised an eyebrow at her outburst. “Professor McGonagall is dealing with them,” he replied. “I should suppose that they will be expelled, though I cannot say for sure… attacking a teacher is usually grounds for expulsion, unless, of course, the perpetrator is yourself.”

“I never attacked a teacher!” Harriet defended.

“Quirinus Quirrell?” Severus suggested in a low drawl. “For a start.”

“That was different!” Harriet insisted. 

“Hush, Harriet. I know,” Severus soothed. “Forgive me, I am in some considerable pain. But do not concern yourself: this will pass. And you must not inform Robin of this.”

“What?” she yelped. “Severus, he should know! He’ll be worried!”

“I do not want him to worry. There is nothing he can do,” Severus pointed out pragmatically. “I do not want him attempting to make his way here to see me.”

Harriet sighed. He had a point. She could see Robin trying to make some ridiculous trek to Hogwarts and showing up at the front gates. “As long as you’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I shall be terrorising my students again my tomorrow morning,” he assured her. “Do not fret for me; I would have preferred that you were unaware of the injury; however, the gossip mill of this school does not stand still. Whilst you are here, however, I do have one request: I have a pile of third year homework on the desk in my library. Will you fetch it to me, please? Just give it to Poppy, she will deliver it to me. I hate to lie here useless: it is my legs and back that are injured, not my intellect.”

“Don’t you need to rest?” she asked. He gave her only a withering glare. “Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands. “Third year homework, got it. Shall I send Hermione in now?”

Severus frowned. “No. Why would you?”

“Well… she’s worried about you.”

“And she does not need to see me in this state,” he informed her with an arched eyebrow. “I would prefer no one sees me in such a state, but I know your propensity for getting into places you should not, especially aided by that cloak of yours.”

“She just wants to make sure you’re alright! People care about you, Severus!” Harriet burst out. 

“Then you are all fools,” he replied flatly. “Leave me, Harriet, and you may tell Miss Granger that I am in adequate health. There is to be absolutely no sneaking about, or I shall happily deduct enough points from Gryffindor that your house will be in negative numbers until the end of the year.”

From Severus, it wasn’t an empty threat. “Okay. No Hermione, no Robin, and fetch the third year essays. Got it. And… Severus? I do care about you. I hope you feel better.”

“Thank you, Harriet,” he said grudgingly. He raised one pale hand to wave her from the room.

Hermione was still standing in the corridor, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. “Well?” she demanded.

Harriet sighed and shook her head. “He’s fine. He’s well enough to be normal Severus, to be honest. He’s pretty snarky. He doesn’t want anyone else to see him though: he only let me in to make sure I wouldn’t tell Robin.”

Hermione’s head drooped. Awkwardly, Harriet put an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine by morning,” she said. “Just a few broken bones, I think. He told me to fetch some work for him to mark, so he must be okay.” With a sniffle, Hermione allowed herself to be guided out of the hospital wing and taken back to her rooms.

Half an hour later, Harriet took a stack of parchment to Madam Pomfrey. “How is he really?” she asked as she handed the pile over to the matron. 

“He is Severus,” she said with a tight smile. “He has always been stoic, and I’ve known him since he was eleven. He is just weaker than usual given the stupid stunt he pulled, undertaking surgery on his own arm.”

Harriet looked surprised. “That still hasn’t healed?” she asked. Wounds were healed magically in minutes or hours. “It’s been weeks!”

“It resists all magical interference,” Madam Pomfrey informed her shortly. “It is not for you to fret about. Now, be a good girl and run along back to your friends.”

Feeling patronised, Harriet left with a heavy step. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a lovely chapter lined up for Monday- one with lots of lovely juicy plot after this fluffy sort of arc. Hoping you all enjoyed this chapter: thanks for all your kind reviews on the last few chapters. I've been having a few doubts about how good this fic actually is after a couple of rubbish reviews on early chapters, and wondering if it's even worth writing it, but knowing that you've all stuck with me for so many chapters and are still enjoying it means an awful lot. So thank you!


	75. The truth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely people who've reassured me that they are enjoying reading this fic. It means such a lot to me! :)

Harriet tucked the letter that Hedwig delivered into her schoolbag. She didn’t want to devour it over breakfast with everyone watching her. She wanted to savour it later, though she gently stroked the crisp muggle paper with one finger. Beside her, Hermione let out a low whine. “Oh, look at him,” she whimpered.

Harriet looked in the direction Hermione gazed. Her own heart jumped a little. Severus was bent, resting his weight on a cane. His own dark gaze swept over the room, a sneer twisting his lips, daring anyone to laugh, to point. No one dared.

Lupin stood to pull out a chair for the head of Slytherin. Severus did not thank him, but he did at least sit without too much of a sneer. “Bloody hell. What happened to Snape?” Ron breathed.

“Slytherin sixth years attacked him with a levitated statue,” Harriet said, her voice low. She wondered why he’d even come to breakfast: skipping the meal would have been less obvious than arriving needing the support of a crutch. She looked across at the Slytherin table: she hadn’t known the students that Severus had named. Neither played Quidditch, and she didn’t mix socially with Slytherins, so she didn’t know who to look for. The table did seem quiet, though; subdued. Draco, sitting alone at the far end of the table, below the first years, saw her look. He raised an eyebrow to her. She jerked her head towards the head table, towards Severus. Draco nodded. Harriet hoped that meant he was willing to talk to her about it later.

A slender hand was laid on Harriet’s shoulder. She jerked in surprise, having been completely engrossed in Draco. She looked over her shoulder to see McGonagall’s lined face and tired eyes. “Potter, please come up to my office straight after breakfast,” she instructed, her Scots burr seeming more obvious than usual.

“Yes, Professor,” she replied. McGonagall nodded briskly, then moved a few places down the table to Neville, repeating the same instructions.

“What’s all that about?” Ron queried with a frown. “You in trouble or something?”

Harriet shrugged. “No idea,” she replied. “S’pose I’ll find out soon.”

She waited until Professor McGonagall left by the staff door at the back, then headed up towards the head’s office. “Hey,” Neville panted from behind her, jogging to catch up.

“Hey,” Harriet replied sheepishly, still feeling guilty about being so horrid to Neville last week. “D’you know what’s going on?”

Neville shook his head, out of breath. They’d just have to wait to find out.

They weren’t the first to arrive, by any means. For a start, Severus was there, already sitting beside the desk, with the cane he’d been using earlier hidden out of sight somewhere. McGonagall was sitting behind her desk, cleared of everything but a sizeable stack of parchment neatly piled before her. Kingsley Shacklebolt was there, and Lupin, and Moody, glowering at everything and nothing in particular. “Come in, take a seat,” McGonagall said to the pair tiredly.

“Why are we here?” Harriet asked, determined that she shouldn’t be in trouble for whatever it was. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done particularly wrong lately. She eyed Kingsley with mistrust: if he was there, this wasn’t just a school matter. Moody occasionally visited to teach Defence just after the full moon, but Kingsley had no connection to the school whatsoever.

“Shut up, Potter,” Severus drawled.

McGonagall rubbed her temples. “All will become clear,” she promised. “Close the door, we have everyone we are expecting.”  Carefully, Neville shut the door, and both students sat as instructed.

Professor McGonagall raised her wand, sketching out a complex figure in the air. “ _Solitudinem maximus,_ ” she intoned. “ _Effigia surdia._ ” A silvery light emerged from her wand tip, expanding into a globe, then, rapidly rushing to the edges of the room. Harriet gasped as the cool magic rushed through her to enclose the entire gathering in a bubble.

“What _was_ that?” she burst out, wide eyed.

“A secrecy bubble, Miss Potter,” McGonagall replied. “No one will be able to hear us or disturb us, and the portraits will not be able to hear or see us. As you can probably gather, the news I have to impart is of the utmost secrecy.” She laid her wand down on the table before her and looked around at the gathered visitors, meeting the eyes of each in turn. Harriet looked away quickly: could McGonagall perform legilimency as easily as Dumbledore had? Was the Professor in her head? McGonagall spoke again, her voice low and rough. “In the very early hours of Thursday last, Albus Dumbledore succumbed to death.”

She waited patiently for the gasps, the squeal from Neville. “Surely not?” Kingsley murmured.

McGonagall inclined her head. “It is quite true, I am afraid. As most of you knew, he was under the effects of an unknown curse, which was, in the end, unable to be contained. His body is currently hidden in the castle, embalmed and under stasis charms. I apologise for suppressing the news for so long, but I feel, and Dumbledore himself agreed, that it is best to keep these tidings from He-who-must-not-be-named for as long as is possible. We need time; time to make plans and implement them, time to place He-who-must-not-be-named in a position in which we can hope to defeat him. I tell you all now because I cannot hope to achieve this alone. We need to plan.”

“Forgive me, Minerva,” Kingsley said, “But why are Harriet and Neville here? Surely, this is not news for their ears?”

McGonagall sighed. “Their presence is highly relevant. Both are intricately tied up in this business, and I feel they have a right to know what is happening. I have spent since Thursday reviewing the memories in Albus’ pensive, and his personal diaries and notes in order to discern his plans. As you will no doubt be aware, he tended not to share his intentions until it was absolutely necessary. It would seem, though, that his plans for the destruction of He-who-must-not-be-named revolved heavily around these two students. It is, I fear a long tale…”

McGonagall gave a potted history to ensure everyone had the relevant information: the prophecy that caused Voldemort to attack baby Harriet, the hiding of her true sex that caused Dumbledore to readjust his belief, and come to the conclusion that the prophecy must, instead, be about Neville. She moved on, then, to the hunt Dumbledore had embarked up for the horcruxes. “He did,” she explained, “leave a letter amongst his belongings, addressed to me. In it, he detailed his belief… no… his knowledge, that He-who-must-not-be-named had created horcruxes, as safeguards against his death, which does explain his apparent resurrection. It was the hunt for these artifacts that has consumed Albus since the return of He-who-must-not-be-named. He identified and destroyed a number: a ring, the destruction of which led to the curse which ultimately killed him. There was a diary of the young Tom Riddle, an artifact destroyed by Miss Potter in her second year. There was a locket: he took Miss Potter on the hunt for that artifact, and it, too, was destroyed. He managed, just a month ago, to liberate a certain goblet from Gringotts itself with help from the curse breakers and a deal with the goblins: it too, contained a part of the soul of He-who-must-not-be-named. There was a diadem which had been lost for centuries hidden within this very school: it has recently been located and destroyed following a long campaign of questioning the portraits and ghosts.”

Lupin looked pale. “Creating a horcrux is a terrible, terrible business,” he said. “It requires murder. It requires the very rending of your soul. Are you telling me that He-who-must-not-be-named created not just one, but five?”

“I am telling you,” Minerva said, “That he created more than five. Albus suspected that there were seven such fragments of soul.”

“Seven!” Kingsley burst in. “How can a soul be stable enough to live after that?”

“It was not,” Minerva replied. “I discovered many things that I did not know by combing through Albus’ memories. One such piece of knowledge was that he was present, that Halloween night, at Godric’s Hollow. He borrowed the invisibility cloak which belonged to James Potter, and he followed He-who-must-not-be-named into the house. He stood, invisible, as He-who-must-not-be-named murdered James and Lily Potter.”

Lupin thrust himself to his feet. “That can’t be,” he intoned. “He can’t have stood by and watch James and Lily be killed… could he?”

“You may see the memory for yourself, if you wish,” Minerva said. “It looks whole and untampered to my eyes. He saw all the events there unfold, and he was not entirely truthful in his retelling to the world. I can’t pretend to understand it myself. In any case, Albus believed that He-who-must-not-be-named had just created his sixth horcrux that very night, using the murder of a muggle woman, and placed the fragment into his snake, Nagini. His soul and his magical core, it seemed, was unstable, and the power of the curse he cast to kill James fractured it beyond repair. He never had a chance to raise his wand to the baby: it was the curse that killed Lily Potter that backfired. As intended, it did kill her, and his soul finally splintered beyond being able to hold together. His body was destroyed in the backlash, just… vanished. His power lashed out at the moment of his death, wreaking havoc in the nursery of the Potter cottage. His soul, searching for a home, created yet another horcrux, an ornament within the room. Albus retrieved it too, just in this past year, aided by Mr. Longbottom. Miss Potter… Harriet... your scar was not caused by surviving the killing curse. It was caused by a flying shard of wood from your own crib. You, as a magically impressionable child, absorbed some of the magic of Tom Riddle’s demise, giving you your ability to speak to snakes, and the unfortunate connection to He-who-must-not-be-named. The physical injury, the presence of blood… Albus believed that it made you more susceptible to the burst of magic than you would have otherwise been. It explains why He-who-must-not-be-named could not touch you: you are imbued with the magic of the curse that killed him, causing the pain of death at a single touch. Blood magic is old, powerful, and poorly understood.”

Harriet gaped. She wasn’t the only one: a ripple of disbelief was running around the room. “So… I never survived the killing curse?” she asked, wavering, unsure. If she’d never survived the curse, then she wasn’t the child-who-lived. She’d never done anything spectacular: she was just a person, a baby in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn’t know if she should be angry, relieved, happy… she just felt empty, confused. “Why did everyone say I did, then?”

McGonagall shook her head. “No, you didn’t, according to the pensieve memories. Remember, until now, we relied on Albus’ version of events that night, based upon, we believed, tracking charms he had placed upon the house. Now, we have his memories, and it seemed to be quite a different situation than we were led to believe. He-who-must-not-be-named did undoubtedly intend to kill you: Dumbledore, I think, intended to see if he succeeded. If he did not, then it was you who was the child of the prophecy; if he killed you, then it was Neville Longbottom. However, the moment never came before He-who-must-not-be-named destroyed himself. Albus, I suppose, felt that you must be the prophesied child, given the events...”

Harriet frowned. Something didn’t make sense. She thought aloud, slowly, haltlingly, but no one interrupted her. “So…” she said slowly, “if there was a horcrux in my bedroom, if the spell backfiring splintered his soul and made a horcrux if I absorbed some of Voldemort’s magic… does that mean that _I’m_ a horcrux? Does that mean _I_ have a bit of his soul inside me?” What she wanted to say was, ‘do I need to die?’ but she was too scared to put the thought into words. The visions, the parseltongue… she’d always had some kind of connection to Voldemort. What if it was actually a piece of him, inside her? The thought made her feel sick.

“There were not enough deaths,” Minerva supplied quietly. “There seems to have been none created when your father was killed. The piggy bank horcrux- that was created by accident upon the death of your mother. None of the literature suggests that multiple horcruxes can be created from a single death, so i think… I hope… that you are not.”

“There is a difference between a soul and magical power,” Severus said, his voice a little rough. “They are closely linked, but it is entirely possible to have a magical connection without a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul resident in you. Magical bonds are not difficult to create: in marriage, for example.” He lapsed into silence again, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Only years of acting a double agent kept his face impassive. Dumbledore had been there… he had watched Lily die, and had done nothing to save her. He regretted giving Dumbledore a slightly less painful death. For the first time, he wished for the hell the Christians believed in, for Albus Dumbledore surely deserved to roast above its eternal flames. It explained how he had been there so fast when Severus had arrived that night, too late to save Lily. He’d held her poor lifeless body, and then, he’d turned to his godchild, crying in the crib. He’d picked up the distressed little child, and then, there Albus had been. He’d told Severus to put the child down. He’d said that Severus was no true parent, a poor father, promised that the child would be raised well. Told him that Lily’s child deserved the best. And then he’d sent the little creature off to live with Petunia Evans. Severus hadn’t known for years, had been furious that he was not good enough for James Potter’s brat, who he believed was to be raised in luxury instead of the simplicity he could have offered. How wrong he’d been.

“It can’t be true,” Lupin repeated. “No one could stand by and watch two good, innocent people be murdered!”

Moody spoke for the first time. “Dumbledore could,” he muttered, his magical eye skittering nervously around: he couldn’t see out of Minerva’s barrier with it, and it made him feel blind. “If it fitted in with his plans, he could. He had to see if the child could be killed. He had to nurture his hero.”

“But if Harry… or should I say Harriet?” Kingsley offered, “If he… she… never survived the curse, how do we even know which child the prophecy refers to?”

“How do we even know that the prophecy is true?” Severus growled. “I don’t put much stock by Sybill Trelawney. I have a piece to add to this puzzle. If I may, Minerva, have you some parchment? A full roll, if you please, I shall need a lot. And a self-inking quill.”

Minerva frowned, but obediently took out a roll of parchment and a quill, pushing them over the desk to him. Severus opened the roll of parchment, letting the spindle drop to the floor. “Longbottom, come here,” he grunted.

Neville looked on with wide eyes. “Me?” he squeaked.

“I see no other Longbottoms in this room,” Severus drawled. Slowly, Neville stood and paced over to where Severus sat. “Hold out your hand,” he instructed.

Trembling, Neville obeyed. A muttered word from Severus opened a small cut on his palm: Neville whimpered. “Severus!” Minerva cried out.

“Quiet!” Severus snapped, holding Neville’s palm over the blank parchment. Blood dripped down: one drop, then two and three and more, until a small puddle had formed. Severus abruptly turned Neville’s hand upright again, healing the gash with a touch of his wand and a simple healing spell. Then, his voice low and crooning, he hunched over the parchment, muttering musically, as if he were singing to the pool of blood. Slowly, he reached for the quill, and swirled the tip through the blood. The shimmering red pool vanished, as if sucked up into the quill, and it began to write in Severus’ distinctive, spiky hand.

“What?” Kingsley and Minerva gasped in unision.

Moody had risen from his chair to watch. “I’ve never seen that spell performed, Snape, but I can see what it does. Where did you get it? That bit of magic would be useful to the aurors, very useful indeed…”

“I can teach you,” Severus replied absently.

“I don’t understand,” Minerva said as she watched the quill fly across the page. “What is happening?”

“It is a version of _Prior Incantato_ ,” Moody grunted. “Or, should I say, _Prior Incantato_ is a version of this? This is more powerful by far… it is listing every spell ever performed upon the boy, starting with the latest- the cut to his hand-, and going back to his birth.”

“What is the meaning of this, Severus?” Minerva demanded hotly. “What relevance does this have?”

“If I am correct, it may be highly relevant,” Severus said calmly. “You see, Mr. Longbottom has always been a truly lamentable excuse for a wizard… a squib could have done better. However, quite recently, he awoke to find himself rather more powerful than when he retired the night before. A truly interesting phenomenon. Under my advice, Mr. Longbottom requested his birth records from the Ministry. As you may know, these records show the strength of a child’s magic at birth: it is very rare that this changes. I have here the copy of the record.” He laid it out on the desk; almost everyone craned closer to see it. “As you can see,” Severus continued, “the magical reading is ‘good’. Not merely ‘acceptable’, but ‘good’. There is no chance that a wizard with a ‘good’ level of magic could possibly have been as hopeless as Longbottom. Therefore, it is most likely that at some point in his life, a magical binding will have been performed. If I am correct, that binding was performed by Bellatrix Lestrange on the night of the thirty-first of October, 1981, and subsequently broken at approximately half an hour past midnight on the twelfth of February of this year, when I killed Bellatrix.”

“You’re saying Bellatrix bound the magic of a child who posed no danger?” Kingsley asked angrily. “That is… abominable! Such actions can cause permanent magical damage: they are not to be taken lightly.”

“She would do anything in order to reduce the threat to her Lord,” Severus replied darkly. “Bella would do anything on his orders. We are coming to the spells cast in childhood: soon, we shall see.”

Severus, Minerva, Moody and Kingsley were bent so close over the parchment that their heads touched. Lupin paced about within Minerva’s silvery bubble, not really paying attention. Neville, pale and trembling, had returned to his seat beside Harriet.

“There!” Moody cried triumphantly. “By Merlin, Snape, you’re right! It’s there, in black and white, _magi restringo_ , just when you said it would be, and Bellatrix Lestrange the caster. How did you know?”

“I did not,” Severus replied with a sigh, sinking back into his chair. “Not until this moment. It was a suspicion only.”

“So perhaps the children were never meant to be killed,” Minerva said softly. “Perhaps they were to be bound, so that they could never threaten He-who-must-not-be-named.”

“Perhaps,” Severus replied tiredly. “Even I cannot truly guess at the feelings and intentions of the Dark Lord.”

Minerva looked at him, her head cocked to the side. “Will you join the Order again now, Severus?” she asked.

Severus shook his head. “I will not be bound to the will of another again,” he replied. “I will support your aims, but I will not count myself amongst your number. I am not wanted there, in any case, I was always there under sufferance.”

“No, Severus!” Minerva cried, but Severus held up his hand

“Do not argue, Minerva. I will not join.”

There was a moment’s pause, the only sound Lupin’s footsteps. Then came the soft thump of the enchanted quill hitting the desk, its job done. The parchment was half full of spells, the writing closely cramped, listing spells and dates and casters. Severus rolled it tightly. “Take this, Longbottom. I recommend destroying it: there is much information here. You would not wish it to fall into the wrong hands.”

“What now, then?” Kingsley asked. “What is our next step?”

“We have to assume that He-who-must-not-be-named can be killed by anyone, then,” Moody offered in a growl. “But first, there was another Horcrux: the snake.”

“What if he’s made more? More that Albus wasn’t aware of?” Kingsley riposted. “How can we know how many there could be?”

Lupin turned to Severus, who was slightly grey around the lips and leaning heavily into his chair back: the long spell had taken a lot out of him. “You know more of dark magic than any of us,” he accused the Potions master hotly. “If anyone would know, it’d be you. And you’ve been in his camp!”

Severus shrugged. “At a guess, if his soul was too unstable in 1981, he would not be able to split it again, though we have no way of knowing for sure. I have never known any extensive study on the process, for reasons I would think obvious.”

“We kill the snake, then,” Moody declared. “If nothing else, we must kill the snake.”

Severus looked up from under hooded eyelids. “He keeps Nagini with him always,” he warned. “He is never away from her, and he can command her to kill without a moment’s hesitation. Her venom is deadly within an hour. Furthermore, there are not so many ways to destroy a horcrux.”

Minerva spoke again then. “Albus listed the ways he knew. The venom of a basilisk. Fiendfyre. The killing curse. A horcrux defies destruction by most normal means: it cannot be smashed or torn.”

“So how’d he destroy the damned things?” Moody growled.

Minerva smiled, a tight, humourless smile. “We have Miss Potter to thank for that,” she said. “Five years ago, she pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from the sorting hat, and used it to slay a basilisk, thus imbuing the sword with the venom, and making it as if a basilisk itself.” She gestured to the sword, glinting in its case on the wall. “The destruction is not so much the problem as the location.”

A small bell on the bookcase behind the desk began to ring, levitating and chiming softly. “It is time for the second lesson,” Minerva said. “I must go and teach, and you too, Remus.”

“Myself, also,” Severus said, rising slowly with the help of his cane.

“No. I have cancelled all your lessons for the day. You must go and rest,” Minerva instructed.

“I am well enough,” Severus snapped.

Minerva raised an eyebrow. She’d known Severus when he was eleven years old; she refused to be cowed by him. “As the acting headmistress, I forbid you to supervise the brewing of potions in your current state, Severus Snape. I will not have a student, or, God forbid, an entire class blown up because you were too tired to prevent it occurring. You have never lost a student yet: I don’t want your record marred.”

It told how tired Severus was that he did not argue further, just gave a single nod. Minerva raised her wand and ended her secrecy bubble. “Come along, Potter,” she said. “Your transfiguration could still do with some work; you are coming to my lesson, I am afraid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first things first: get your torches and pitchforks here! Dumbledore’s hidden somewhere in Hogwarts: go fetch!  
> Now, onto more serious things. If you’re currently fuming because this doesn’t fit with canon, read on a bit before turning those torches and pitchforks onto me, please!  
> This was an exceedingly difficult chapter to make match canon, not because it’s completely out there, but because canon has some gaping holes, particularly regarding how we know what actually happened that night pre-book-seven, and regarding the fidelius charm. I could quite probably write an essay on the problems with fidelius, the amount I’ve been reading, but I shall try to cut it down a bit.  
> So, on Dumbledore being there on the night the Potters die… this seems possible to me. An awful lot seems to be known about the exact chain of events, based only, apparently, on gossip- Flitwick tells everyone all about it in the Three Broomsticks in book three. How do we know what happened, if someone wasn’t there? Yes, magical forensics and so forth, but I’m convinced that there’s too much certainty about what happened for it just to be guesswork. Also, Dumbledore must have known who the Potter’s secret keeper was, because I’m convinced that he will have been told the location of the house at Godric’s Hollow as head of the Order- told by Pettigrew. There’s some question of how long the Potter’s were under fidelius: In Prisoner of Azkaban, it’s said to be a week, but the letter Lily writes to Sirius thanking him for the birthday present for Harriet suggests they were ‘in hiding’, and thus under fidelius, from at least Harry’s birthday in July. I highly doubt Dumbledore didn’t visit at all, given that even Bathilda Bagshot visited!  
> Flitwick, in Prisoner of Azkaban, suggests that Dumbledore doesn’t know that Pettigrew was the secret keeper, but how would Flitwick know? He wasn’t so far as I can tell, a close friend of the Potters. He will only know what Dumbledore has told him. Why, then, doesn’t Dumbledore set the record straight about it being Pettigrew, and not Sirius being the secret keeper? Perhaps because he doesn’t want his involvement questioned...  
> Also, Pettigrew was a spy for Voldemort for some time before James and Lily died. He was also a member of the Order. He’ll have been with Dumbledore on a number of occasions, and Dumbledore wasn’t altogether great at respecting the privacy of people’s minds. How on earth wouldn’t he have seen Pettigrew’s defection, unless we’re talking a master-class Legilimens? I am sure that he must have known, but he believed that the prophecy might be real, but didn’t know which child it was. He believed that Harry had to come into contact with Voldemort to destroy him… and why not sooner, rather than later? I’m pretty sure that he’d have wanted to get it out of the way to prove or disprove the prophecy.  
> So, I don’t find it that unlikely that Dumbledore was there that night, told Snape that he couldn’t have the baby, wandered off for a bit and told Hagrid what to do (you know, with instant wizard travel and all)- not letting Sirius have the baby, because that would mess with with the control Dumbledore could have over Harry later on, go and have a snooze and then turn up at Privet Drive to leave some poor kid on a doorstep in November. A great plan- what happens if he gets cold, or wanders off? Dumbledore was clearly not so very clever on that one, I think… I know he could have cast spells, but he doesn’t. We see Hagrid arrive with the baby, and we see Dumbledore leave in the very first book. No charms seem to be cast.  
> So, I think that this explanation is at least viable. I must admit, I can’t think all too highly of a man who, in canon, literally raised a child for the slaughter, and duped Severus into guarding that child, teaching that child, thinking he was doing good for Lily’s child. It doesn’t take a great leap for me to think that he stood by and watched Lily and James Potter die… after all, he stood by and watched Sirius Black be sentenced to Azkaban. (On another note, why not use legilimency or veritaserum before they send them to Azkaban, to weed out the innocent ones? Or to find out the reliability of the ‘I was under imperius’ excuse?).


	76. Reacting

Harriet skipped lunch. She couldn’t quite face being around so many people. She’d been a complete disaster in Transfigurations, but McGonagall hadn’t said a word. She ignored Ron and Hermione except to mutter that she was fine, and flee to her room as soon as they were dismissed. Her friends chased her a bit until she’d snapped that she was fine, just busy, and to leave her alone. It had been all she could do to keep from screaming.

She felt like a fraud. It was bad enough that people had believed her to be something she wasn’t for most of her life, believed her to be a boy, but what was she, really? Everyone had thought her the child-who-lived, the survivor of the killing curse, the hope of the wizarding world, and she was none of those things. Who was she?

How could Dumbledore have stood by and watched her parents be killed? How could anyone stand and do nothing whilst people were murdered before you? Good people, people, by all accounts that you liked? People you were meant to protect! Her parents had been in the Order, for Merlin’s sake! He was no better than a murderer!

She went from pacing before the fireplace to burrowing in her favourite chair, staring moodily at the flames. Could McGonagall be wrong? Could Dumbledore not have been there? But why would she lie? She’d offered to let Lupin see the memory: she was sure enough. Could pensieve memories be tampered with? But why? Why would she do that? The thoughts skittered in and out of her mind without any answers, without time to really consider them. Harriet touched her scar with cautious fingers. Wood. Caused by flying wood, backfire from a curse, not a curse itself. And she was what? Curse infested? She’d absorbed magic from Voldemort himself? The thought made her shiver. It was like there was a part of him inside her. Her parseltongue, the visions and nightmares… all caused by his magic. Had the occlumency lessons even done anything? Could she block him from her mind at all? It wasn’t a link, it was actually Voldemort’s magic, inside her. She felt… soiled, almost as dirty as when he’d touched her. 

She jumped when a crack sounded by her elbow. She gasped, and Dobby tugged at a droopy ear with one spindly hand. “Forgive Dobby for startling Mistress Harriet,” the little elf squeaked. “Dobby thought that Mistress may like some lunch.”

“Thanks, Dobby,” Harriet sighed. She wondered how the elf knew she wasn’t at lunch. The elves seemed to know everything. Hogwarts should have elves as heads of houses, she mused. Or at least an elf looking after the welfare of individual students. No one would stop eating, or have sleepless nights unknown to anyone else. 

Dobby set the tray down on the coffee table: chicken and mashed potatoes and peas, a dish of sponge pudding and custard for pudding, a large goblet of pumpkin juice. “Will Mistress require anything else?” he asked.

Harriet smiled. She could be angry at Dumbledore, angry at the world, but no one, surely no one could be angry at Dobby. “No, Dobby, that’s great.”

The elf returned her small smile tenfold, beaming from ear to ear. Somehow, seeing Dobby grinning like nobody’s business cheered her a little. “Hey, Dobby, why do you keep looking after me?” she asked.

Dobby’s answer was instant. “Because Mistress Potter is kind to everyone, even elves.”

“Of course I’m kind to you. You bring me food,” Harriet pointed out. Why wouldn’t she be nice to someone who looked after her as well as Dobby did? She knew, though, that there were plenty that were cruel to their elves, no matter how good the service.

“You are a good person. Elves know these things,” Dobby said with conviction. He bowed, and vanished with another pop. With a sigh, Harriet dropped to her knees by the coffee table, sitting back and picking up the knife and fork. 

Only the revelations of the morning could have possibly induced Harriet to forget about Robin’s letter. She only found it again when she pulled her books out of her bag, though she had no real impetus to work. She held the cool, crisp paper, stroking it softly. He’d written her first name on the front, the thick line of the blue ink bleeding slightly into the paper around it. Whilst her handwriting was crabbed, pointed and scrawly, his was smooth and round. She could see a trace of Severus in it, and she had a sudden image of Severus, fully dressed in teaching robes, standing over Robin and forcing him to practice the lovely handwriting.

She didn’t know that she wasn’t that far off the mark. Severus had hated the smudges that came with a left-hander’s writing, and had coached Robin to write with his hand always slightly off the page to avoid the smudge. Somewhere along the way, Robin had developed the penmanship. It had been at the point that he’d been interested in art, and the handwriting had never left him. 

Slowly, savouring, Harriet untucked the paper from its folds. 

_ Dearest Harriet, _

_ I miss you too. You should know that. It’s so frustrating, to be stuck here when nothing is happening there. I’m sure it would have been fine, I’m sure Dad’s being dramatically over-cautious, as usual (did you know I never learnt to ride a bicycle, because it was ‘dangerous’? But yet I was allowed to go and play with firearms... Figure that one out.) I suppose he has a point, but that doesn’t mean I like it.  _

_ Life goes on, here. I was out with Carrie and co. last night. She asks about you occasionally. I don’t see Oliver often, usually only when I visit Carrie, but he always makes a point of pulling the threatening routine, am I looking after you properly, and so on. I admit, I try to avoid him.  _

_ I’m already a week ahead with my work, so I suppose there are silver linings to everything. The lecturers are starting to bother us about topics for dissertations. I’d planned to do something in Philosophy, but my advanced Latin tutor’s trying to persuade me to do something language based. He keeps hinting at some kind of teaching assistant post whilst I’m doing my Masters, assuming that I do it at Manchester, anyway. Oh well, I have until September to decide, though I admit that’s cutting it a bit fine for my tastes.  _

_ I have a suggestion with regards to your ‘unspeakable (or should that be unwriteable?) problem.  You know the toys I sent you? I know you haven’t really been using them, but perhaps you should. I want you to try having the balls in for an entire day- put them in before breakfast, and don’t take them out until after dinner, apart from when you need the loo, of course. Write to me tomorrow evening, and let me know how it goes, okay? I hope you’ll be so desperate, you’ll work yourself into oblivion before you sleep, and you won’t even notice I’m not there. _

_ I hope all went well with Ron’s family. It sounds like they’ve got a big family, so I can only suppose that they won’t mind children about too much. Tell him from me that he’s doing the right thing by getting married: it’ll be a far more stable environment for the children. I must admit, I thought he was a bit of a twit, but my opinions of him may be rising.  _

_ Be good, kitten. Study all you can, and be careful. I know how implicated you are in all of this, and I would like you in one piece at the end of it, please. _

_ I love you. _

_ Robin _

 

Harriet didn’t know what to feel as she read. The ache in her heart was constant; a feeling like she might drown on the tears that didn’t fall. She could almost hear his voice in her head. She missed his voice, the low, gentle richness of it as he held her close to him. She missed his woody scent, too, an aroma that seemed to cling around the warm skin at the back of his neck and suffuse into his hair. She loved his hair: soft enough that it felt like water falling through her hands.

Thinking about his hair on her skin wasn’t helping her other problem though: the fact that her thighs were pressed together, and she could feel the tickle of arousal. Experimentally, she spread her knees and slipped a hand up her skirt, over the waistband of her tights and knickers, tugging the thin fabric away. She stroked a finger along her lips, but all it seemed to do was send a stab of longing into her heart. She didn’t want to touch herself: she wanted to touch Robin. She yanked her hand out of her clothing in frustration. It should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. She sat back against her chair and huffed, her face a picture of childish grumpiness. Nothing was going to go right today. She had to resist the urge to hurl a book across the room in a fit of pique.

And then, of course, she started thinking again. Thinking of the screams; her mother’s screams, and Dumbledore had been there all along. How could it be true? She’d trusted Dumbledore! She’d thought he cared about her! Angrily, she stood, and cast about for her floo powder. Severus had the day off teaching. Maybe he could explain it.

She almost fell over in surprise when she stumbled through the floo, not in her usual overbalancing way, but in surprise. Severus was stretched full length on the sofa, a book fallen to the floor beside him, fast asleep. Sheba, curled into a ball on his belly, opened her amber eyes to regard Harriet with some mistrust. 

Harriet couldn’t resist creeping closer to look at Severus, asleep. He seemed to have lost years with the shedding of his habitual frown. He was still all angles and sharp cheekbones, but she’d never realised how long his eyelashes were, or paid attention to the shape of his mouth. It was almost always adorned with at least a small sneer. He actually looked… normal. Not like the terrifying potions master, but like someone you wouldn’t be too shocked to discover your friend was in a relationship with… though Harriet shuddered to think what he and Hermione actually got up to.

She gasped in surprise when a hand shot out, grabbing her right wrist and pulling to overbalance her just as Severus’ glinting eyes opened. “Ouch!” she cried as she hit the floor, his firm tug enough to make her fall over her own feet. Sheba mewled and leapt away, slinking in the direction of the bedrooms.

“Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a sleeping man, Harriet?” he growled. 

“I’m sorry,” she groused from the floor, not sounding terribly apologetic.

He sighed deeply, sitting slowly. He rubbed his head. “Stop snivelling down there. Get up, and for Merlin’s sake, make some tea,” he groused. 

She tried to speak, but he stopped her with an upraised hand and a glare. “Tea,” he repeated firmly. “Unless a disaster is imminent, I will not speak until you place a cup of tea before me.” He stood with a groan worthy of a man twice his age at least and limped towards his workroom, leaving his cane by the side of the sofa. Harriet felt sorry for him, and sped the water along on its way to boil. Usually, Severus didn’t approve of tea made with magically heated water- he said it impaired the flavour- but he seemed to need the tea enough to let it slide for once. She hoped so, anyway.

Severus came back slowly, one hand braced on the wall as he went. He didn’t look relaxed and young anymore: he looked grey with pain, his frown lines like crevasses. “Are you okay?” Harriet asked quietly. “Only, it looks like you’re about eighty.”

“My thanks for your vote of confidence,” he growled sarcastically. “Considering I had displaced two vertebrae and broken a leg at this time yesterday, I should have thought that I would be permitted a day off from the fashion show.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harriet groused. She lifted the lid of the teapot and peered in, trying to decide if it was brewed yet. “Well,” she corrected, replacing the lid and sitting up, “it kind of is. Because yeah, you’re not well.”

“I fail to see your point,” Severus replied dourly, uncorking a vial of swirling, pearlescent blue liquid and tipping his head back to swallow the contents.

“Well,” Harriet said, “I suppose I want… erm… to make sure you’re okay. Because, well…” she looked down at the teapot studiously, “because I care about you.” 

She forced herself to be silent, waiting for the cutting remark. It didn’t come. Instead, Severus eventually said, “Thank you. I am… touched by your concern. However, you need not worry. All will be well in time.” 

Harriet nodded dumbly and poured some tea, carefully getting to her feet to carry it the few steps to Severus. He accepted it with a dip of his head in thanks, taking an appreciative sip. Severus preferred his tea scaldingly hot. He set his slightly less full cup down on the table before him, groaning slightly as he straightened. A hand went to his lower back. “Why did you come, Harriet? Unless it was merely to stare at me as I slept, of course.”

Harriet fiddled with the teaspoon on top of the tea caddy, still seated on the floor by the fire. She didn’t really know where to start. “Would you mind if I slept in Robin’s room?” she asked quietly after a few moments of semi-comfortable silence. 

“I have no objection, although you would have to inform Professor Lupin of your whereabouts now that the tracking charms on your bed have been reinstated,” he replied softly. “Have you corresponded with Robin?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I got so used to him being around, you know? It’s weird not having him there to just tell stuff to.”

“You have not told him of my injury?” Severus pressed.

Harriet shook her head abently.

“And I would advise you to keep the contents of this morning’s meeting confidential too, not to keep it from Robin’s knowledge, but as a precaution should your owl be intercepted.”

She nodded. That made sense, though it was a big thing to keep from Robin. “D’you think it’s true?” she asked in a very small voice. 

Severus leaned back into the sofa, his eyes tracking along the expanse of the ceiling. “I fail to see why it would be untruth,” he replied carefully. 

“But, it’s Dumbledore!” Harriet burst out. “How could anyone stand and watch two people be murdered, especially Dumbledore!”

Severus looked down at her, his eyes reflecting the firelight like chips of black ice. “ _ Especially _ Dumbledore?” he parroted back to her. “Oh, no, Harriet, he was not so great a man as he would have had you believe.”

“But he was supposed to be  _ good _ !” Harried burst out. “He was head of the Order, he defeated Grindelwald, he was, was,  _ Dumbledore _ !”

Severus raised an eyebrow, absently rubbing at his left forearm. “Let us put it in personal terms, shall we?” he began, in lecturing tones. “If we speak in generalities, we shall be here all night. We shall ignore the matter of his presence as your parents were murdered, since it is the point we are debating. Instead, we shall consider that he insisted that you be raised by muggles despite at least two wizards offering to raise you: myself and Black. Indeed, he allowed Black to be sentenced to Azkaban without trial, despite clearly knowing who the Secret Keeper for your parents was. He then left you, at a year and some months, alone, on a doorstep, in November. He failed to make any checks on your welfare, and would not divulge your location to anyone, the ministry included, though Merlin only knows how he managed that one. Then, he sent no emissary to explain the magical world to you until the situation became downright ridiculous and Professor McGonagall insisted upon it. She wished to go herself: he forbade it, sending Hagrid to you instead. He allowed you to return to those same muggles each summer, despite knowing that you came back each September malnourished. Then,” he said, barely taking a breath in his monologue, “we move onto your school career.

“In your first year, he gave an you, eleven year old child, a magical artifact of extraordinary power in the form of your invisibility cloak, and allowed you to use it, quite unsupervised, around the castle. Hogwarts may be a school, but for an unattended, unseen eleven year old, it is quite a dangerous place. Against all advice, he kept another unbelievably powerful artifact, the Philosopher’s stone in a rather poorly guarded location within the castle, and all but challenged the students to find it. 

“In your second year, he failed to ensure that all students were on board the Hogwarts Express, leading you to undertake a harebrained journey in a flying car. He failed to evacuate the school despite students being petrified… all because he wanted to see how the events would play out. 

“Your fourth year… a complete disaster, almost leading to your death on a number of occasions. The headmaster had the right to pull you from the Triwizard tournament: he did not, despite pleas from many of your teachers. His actions led directly to the resurrection of the Dark Lord through your kidnap: it is frankly a miracle that you survived. In your fifth year…”

Harriet held up her hands. “No more, please,” she whispered, too overwhelmed fro any more. “I get it. I just… saw him as kind of a grandfather, you know?”

“Many people saw him that way,” Severus said softly. “He was the leader of the light; but remember that his allegiance changed through his life. In his youth, he subscribed to the same views that the Dark Lord espoused, at least in the beginning, the same views that caused me to join the society that was just becoming known as the Death Eaters.”

“Why did you join?” Harriet asked, her curiosity getting the better of her confusion. It was a question she’d wanted to ask Severus for ages, but it never seemed right. It was like asking him to explain all the worst things he’d ever done in his life; it probably was asking him to explain the worst thing he’d ever done. But he seemed talkative now, a rare occurrence. Perhaps the potions he’d taken for his injuries had loosened his tongue

Severus kept his eyes on her. He’d been expecting the query for some time. “Power,” he said. “Power, and arrogance. I was sixteen when I began attending revels with Lucius Malfoy… revels then were not what they became. They were parties, grand parties filled with people who, to a sixteen year old boy with no place in the world, exuded surety, confidence. I had been raised since eleven in the hothouse atmosphere of Slytherin; trained to believe in the superiority of magic, the weakness of muggles. I despised my own muggle father, it was no great stretch to extend that to all muggles. He was weak: not physically, but mentally and emotionally. He was stupid, he was ignorant, he turned to drink and violence because it was all he knew. I, wrongly, supposed that it was all the muggle mind could manage, these simple concepts. I saw him lord over my mother, a witch, and I knew that it was wrong. So, guided by Slytherin ideals, I believed that all muggles should be under the benevolent rule of those with magic, those with power.”

“What changed?” she pressed, her knees pulled up under her chin. 

“My ideals, and the Dark Lord’s methods,” he replied darkly. “He became obsessed with power, all power, and he no longer spoke of benevolence… instead, he spoke of slavery. At the same time, my own view of muggles was changing: I had a child by a muggle woman, and increasingly, I feared for his life. Events became too much, and I turned to the only place I could see for support: Albus Dumbledore.”

“And he protected you?” Harriet suggested quietly, wanting something good, wanting some confirmation that Dumbledore had been the kind man she’d believed in. 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “For a price.”

Harriet looked up at him curiously, no longer quite as interested in a hole developing in the toe of her tights. He sighed deeply, raising a hand to press to his temples. Of course she would not be satisfied with that. Potter always had to stick her nose in everywhere. Well, he had volunteered this much information. He might as well continue. “I am not proud of the things I did then, Harriet. I am not proud of how much I ignored my own morality to attempt to sway the Dark Lord. But there were some things I could not do… he commanded me to kill a child, a muggle child. Her parents were dead already, the child about the same age as Robin at the time. I could not, and I near crawled to Dumbledore, unable to bear service to Voldemort a moment longer. I was afraid for my own child’s life. Dumbledore agreed to provide me with the necessary help to shield Robin, though he had conditions. I was to fill the vacant post of Potions Master, and I was to feed information from the camp of the Dark Lord back to Dumbledore, to his Order of the Phoenix.”

“But at least he didn’t make you have to kill anyone,” Harriet pointed out slowly.

“No,” Severus sighed. “He did not. But do not believe that Albus Dumbledore was an honourable man, Harriet. He had his own ends, like any other, and he was more than willing to use his considerable power and influence to achieve them. In that way, there is no difference between the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore. In another time, they would have been allies, just as Dumbledore and Grindelwald were allies before their altercations. Remember, wizarding politics are more complicated than muggle, for we have to take into account power levels as well as support, lineage, money and any other number of things. Remember also, that Dumbledore controlled the ministry. It would be interesting to see who rises to fill the void in power, except that in these circumstances, there is every likelihood that it will be the Dark Lord.”

Harriet shivered, despite sitting so close to the fire. “It seems like everything’s normal for a bit, then it all goes wrong again,” she whispered.

Severus patted the seat on the sofa next to him. Harriet looked up, confused. “Come, sit with me,” he invited. Gingerly, she took the other end of the sofa, tucking her feet under her again. 

“I truly wish I could have given you a better life, Harriet,” Severus said roughly. “I wanted to raise you as my own when your parents died, but Dumbledore, in his infinite wisdom, prevented me. I wish I could have protected your from his machinations, but I did not know them. I thought… I thought I was doing the best for you. When Albus asked me to watch over you… he did not know that I would have done it anyway.”

“Why did he ask you to look after me?” Harriet asked curiously. “When?”

Severus drained the last of his tea. He did look slightly better. “When you began school,” he said. “Albus did not know, of course, that I was godfather to you… he knew only that I might be willing to protect Lily Evan’s child.” He took a heavy breath. “I… I loved your mother, Harriet. I loved her deeply. Alas, we took different paths, and it was James Potter she loved, and not me. I value you for yourself, though, to begin with, it was your mother who I aimed to protect. Over the last year, as we have spent time together… you are like a daughter to me. But I cannot, will not, ever forgive Albus for standing by and letting your mother die.”

“But you’d have let him watch my father die?” Harriet challenged shrilly. Severus closed his eyes in weariness. “Well?” Harriet demanded.

“James Potter was a bully and a bigot,” Severus muttered. “But no, he did not deserve to die like that.” He didn’t like admitting it, but even he was not so hard hearted as to say that anyone deserved to be struck down by the Dark Lord. “I make no excuses for the actions of Albus Dumbledore, they were abominable.”

“They were my parents!” Harriet cried out vehemently. She sprang to her feet, though for what purpose, she didn’t know. She turned to face the wall. “He as good as murdered them! I’m an orphan because of him, and he pretended to be nice!” Her voice cracked, dropped from a yell to a whisper. “They were my parents.”

Heated, angry tears dripped down the sides of her nose as she sucked in angry, choked breaths. Behind her, on the sofa, Severus sighed her name, but she didn’t even hear. With a world weary sigh, he levered himself up and crossed the few steps to her, laying his hands on her shaking shoulders. “Come here,” he muttered, towing her back to the sofa with him. She didn’t protest as he pulled her down and pressed her head to his chest, where she dampened the linen of his shirt. 


	77. The red and gold wedding

Harriet twitched with nerves. She’d been barely concealing nervous tension for weeks, but as least now she had company. Of course, Ron was jumpy because he’d be getting married in less than an hour. Harriet was nervy because she was expecting something terrible to happen at every possible moment. She could not conceive how news of Dumbledore’s death had been kept secret for so long. There’d been no major Death Eater attacks, only occasional sightings, no killings. Two men, hooded and masked, had been reported on Knockturn alley, but, on the arrival of the Aurors, they bore no brand on their arms. They were released, for what could they be charged with? They had harmed no one.

Ron peered at himself in Harriet’s mirror for about the hundredth time. “Are you sure I haven’t got fluff anywhere?” he asked. “Or scorch marks?”

She understood his concern: his robes were borrowed from Charlie, who almost always had some form of animal about. The robes had been meticulously laundered by Mrs. Weasley, though, and not one speck of dander remained. “You’re fine,” she assured him. “Maybe we should go and make sure everything’s set up though?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Ron agreed nervously. “That’s a good idea.”

Harriet took one last glance at herself in the mirror before they left. She looked good, she thought, clad in a pale minty green dress that fluttered around her, hiding her lack of feminine curves quite effectively. Ginny had helped with Harriet’s hair when she’d come to check on her brother: Harriet still struggled with anything much more elaborate than a ponytail, even with charms. 

Ron cleared his throat impatiently from the door. “You coming, or not?” he asked, jiggling from foot to foot.

“I’m coming,” she assured him.

“You got the rings?”

In wizarding culture, it was apparently tradition for the second to carry both the bride and the groom’s rings. The second, it was thought, should be a strong enough wizard to defend the new couple, and thus, also, to guard their possessions. She was delighted that most of the other duties of a second had fallen by the wayside: protecting the couple with her life, marrying the bride should the groom die between the engagement and the wedding (this one would be impossible, given that the wizarding world did not recognise same-sex couples), and ensuring that the marriage was consummated by observing the bedding of the bride. She was really, really pleased that she didn’t have to watch Ron and Imogen go to bed together. The only nod to that tradition was for the second to accompany the couple as far as their room, ostensibly to ensure that they got there safely, with no secret swaps of either party. The whole business made Harriet very, very glad that she didn’t live a few centuries back. The fact that it was the same archaic customs and traditions that had led to her living her life as a boy for seventeen years was not lost on her. 

There were a few goggle-eyed stares from the students they passed, unused to seeing their schoolmates dressed so finely. Originally, McGonagall had suggested decorating the great hall and having it as an event for all the school, but Imogen hadn’t been delighted with the plan. As she pointed out, it would be her only wedding, and she wanted it to be special, not a feast for the first years. And so, the room of requirement was requisitioned, with Imogen entering first the day before and Professor Flitwick locking it to her vision for the next two days. 

The teachers had been, for the most part, delighted and rather excited about the prospect of a wedding. Flitwick was delighted to supplement the room of requirement, making sure that the ‘weather’ remained sunny during the day and charming hundreds of little lanterns to light as dusk would fall. Professor Sprout was far more excited about wedding flowers than Imogen herself, and used her extensive horticultural connections to get whatever Imogen desired, no matter the season. McGonagall had personally taken the pair shopping for wedding jewelry- how Ron paid, Harriet didn’t know, as he’d not asked her for money. She had her suspicions that the twins or Bill may have quietly provided their younger brother with the funds. 

The door to the room was visible, locked in place by Flitwick. Ron stared at it as if it may bite him, so Harriet turned the heavy ring to let them in.

The door led into an antechamber that looked very much like any other part of Hogwarts- grey stone with a few hangings, and a rather grand candle-filled chandelier. Currently, the big doors to the front and right were thrown open, and the smaller one to the left was closed. It was just a little room, with a sofa and a few chairs, suggested by Severus as somewhere for Imogen to rest, should she become tired. She’d thought it a silly idea, but one with no harm in it. 

The door straight ahead led to a small chapel. Imogen’s family and the Weasleys were at least nominally Christian, and she’d said that she wasn’t sure she’d feel really married unless it was in a church. This one had bright stained glass windows and highly polished pews, and the little altar was heaped with piles of puffy hydrangea, thanks to Professor Sprout’s sister-in-law, who grew them in her winter garden. 

They were not the first there. Professor McGonagall had persuaded the priest from the church at Hogsmeade to preside over the wedding, even though it was being held in the castle and not the village. Wizarding members or the clergy were rare, and this one was one of a dying breed, a smiling little old man clad in black shirt and dog collar, his robes thrown over the back of a front pew. He was lighting candles with long tapers, but looked up with a smile as they crept in. “Ah,” he said with joviality. “The groom has arrived!” He carefully blew out the flame on his taper (Harriet wondered why he didn’t just light the candles by magic) and set it aside to approach them. “Any last minute nerves?” he asked kindly.

“Erm, a few,” Ron admitted with a gulp.

“It is a big step,” the priest assured him, “but a loving and good one. I pray that you will have a long and happy marriage.”

“It’s not the being married bit I’m worried about,” Ron said. “It’s more that I might fall over, or say something stupid during the actual wedding bit.”

A smile spread over the priest’s face. (Father McKenzie, Harriet finally remembered) “There is no need to worry about that. I shall tell you all the words to say, you need only repeat them back.”

“Okay,” Ron said with a nod, but it didn’t seem to comfort him much.

“Why don’t you go and have a look next door and a little walk around to calm your nerves?” Father McKenzie suggested kindly. “I shouldn’t think we’ll need you for at least a quarter of an hour.”

“I won’t miss it?” Ron asked nervously.

“We won’t start the wedding without the groom, don’t you worry,” Father McKenzie said with a chuckle. “Go and have a little drink to calm the nerves. Not too much, mind: no slurring the vows!” He turned to Harriet as Ron fled to the other room. “Have you the rings?” he asked. He’d found it amusing that the groom’s second was female when they’d met the evening before, but he wasn’t laughing at her now, just twinkling gently. 

“Yeah… d’you need them now?” she asked.

“Oh, no. Just you hold onto them, I’ll ask you for them when I need them. Now, go and keep the groom sane and sober, please? I’ll send someone to fetch you when we’re ready.”

Harriet gladly fled to the second room. This was the one she really liked; the church made her feel oddly uncomfortable. She’d never been to France, but that was where Imogen said she’d got the inspiration: a courtyard, open to the enchanted sky and with a covered walkway running around each of the four sides. The posts supporting it were wrapped in branches bearing large falls of purple flowers: wisteria, Imogen had said. The room of requirement was incapable of making living things, but Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, working together, were capable of transfiguring potted samples given by Professor Sprout into the fully grown objects for a time. The cobbled floor of the square was peppered with big round tables, set for a formal meal, and already, there were house elves flitting about checking everything was perfectly in place. One of them had pressed a goblet into Ron’s hand: Harriet hoped it was pumpkin juice. “You okay?” she asked. 

“I suggested that we should get married on the quidditch pitch,” Ron informed her with a slight air of panic. “How’d I end up here, with flowers and three sets of cutlery and dress robes?”

“Erm?” Harriet contributed helpfully.

“Feels like I’m in some kind of puppet show,” Ron said. 

Whatever he might have said next remained unsaid, disrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Weasley, a veritable hurricane of pink robes. “Are you all ready, Ronniekins?” she gushed. “Oh. this place is lovely, very tasteful. Do you know, I had no idea there was somewhere like this in Hogwarts? This old castle has plenty of secrets still to be discovered! Now, then, you haven’t seen Imogen today, have you? You know that’s bad luck. And are you sure you’ve got the rings? The priest seems nice…”

She didn’t even give Ron a chance to respond as she fluttered around him, tugging at his robes to make sure they were straight, smoothing down the flames of his hair, wittering all the while. She didn’t even notice her husband and the twins following her in. “He looks fine, Molly,” Arthur told her gently, laying a hand on her arm. 

She smiled, stepping back. Her eyes glistened slightly. “Of course he does. My baby boy. I’m so proud of you.”

Arthur smiled too, though, unlike Molly, he hadn’t missed the look of panic in Ron’s eyes. “I’d like a few minutes with Ron,” he said. “Father-son wedding things. Why don’t the rest of you go through and wait? There are a few guests starting to arrive.” Harriet looked torn- was she supposed to stay with Ron? Mr. Weasley saved her the decision. “Off you go, Harriet… I’ll deliver him safely in a minute or two.”

Relieved, she followed Mrs. Weasley, who squeezed her in a sudden hug. “Oh, Harriet… I’m so excited!” she said. “Though… I did wonder… when you showed up as a girl, I did wonder if you and Ron would… well. Imogen’s a lovely girl.”

“I think Ron and I knew each other as friends too well for that,” Harriet suggested. She didn’t want to tell Mrs. Weasley that she’d never felt an iota of attraction to Ron. He was too… wholesome. Was that the right description? she wondered, as she settled in the front right pew, as indicated by smiling Father McKenzie. All the Weasley’s but Ginny were here- she, along with Faye, was serving as a bridesmaid to Imogen. Ginny tried to project an aura of laissez-faire at the invitation, but Harriet had known Ginny for a long time. She’d saved Ginny from death at the hands of young Tom Riddle, she’d been in the hothouse environment of house quidditch with her, she’d even kissed her, held her, spent hours walking around the lake… to someone who knew her well, it was obvious that Ginny was excited. 

Colin Creevey, camera clutched in his hands, waited to the side. It had been his idea to take photos of the wedding, he’d been over-the-moon excited at the project. To be honest, though not that many were invited, this wedding had been the talk of Hogwarts. There hadn’t been married students in over a hundred years: this was a major event that even had the first year girls gushing, dewy-eyed, over their own nuptials. 

All the seventh year Gryffindors were here, even Lavender, along with the sixth year girls and the remainders of the Quidditch team. A smattering of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff seventh years were in attendance, and Luna with Neville. Draco was the only Slytherin student to have been invited. Hagrid, of course, was there at the back, taking up three chairs and with a giant frilly handkerchief ready. Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout... Professor Lupin, of course… and Harriet blinked in surprise to find Severus, tightly buttoned up in his teaching robes, seated next to Professor McGonagall. She’d had no idea he’d been invited, let alone decided to attend. Weddings didn’t really seem his thing, and true to her suspicions, he looked highly uncomfortable, his face set stony and his hands loosely fisted in his black-clad lap. His eyes faced steadfastly forward, his face showing not one iota of emotion. He may as well have been attending a funeral. Harriet turned to face the front again, starting at the flower-decked altar at the front. Would she ever get married?

Ron slipped into his place next to her. “You okay?” she whispered. 

He grinned at her. “Yeah. It’s only one day, isn’t it? And it’s not so bad… Aunt Muriel could be here.”

Harriet didn’t have a chance to respond before music began from an enchanted organ, and everyone stood. Father Mckenzie gestured for Ron to come and stand before him. 

Imogen was wearing a wedding dress, one with a high waist and a flowing skirt, dropping to her ankles in soft folds of ivory fabric. She smiled shyly at Ron as she stepped away from her maids and her father. He reached across the few inches between them to gather her hand in his, twining their fingers together. Father McKenzie began to speak.

Harriet couldn’t have said that she was interested by the wedding ceremony. She could see Ron’s point: this wasn’t him. It wasn’t Imogen either. It was like playacting. It seemed to be a lot of talking, a lot of Ron and Imogen repeating back what was said to them. She didn’t really see the point, or see how all this wittering made a marriage. What difference did a few words make? Somehow, in a magical wedding, she’d expected something more. Something more binding. This? This was all talk about being bound together by a higher power, but with no evidence of any power. So far, she was unimpressed by her first church service. 

Father McKenzie called her forward with the rings, holding them and blessing them (with words, not with his wand), and Harriet, standing beside Ron with her hands clasped before her, took the chance to look around. Mrs. Weasley was dabbing at her eyes, and Hagrid looked a bit damp, too. Mrs. Langley was clutching her husband’s hand tightly, and Faye had the biggest smile Harriet had ever seen plastered across her face. Ginny, a more modest grin in place, raised her eyebrow in acknowledgement to Harriet’s look. Harriet wondered if Ginny had imagined a wedding like this.Then she wondered what Robin’s idea of a wedding would look like. She hoped it wasn’t like this. She wanted to be married, she thought… Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were married, and they seemed really happy. She wasn’t keen on this whole circus, though, and she knew that this was toned down. 

A portly wizard in bottle green robes stood. She’d presumed, perhaps, that he was a friend of Imogen’s parents, but he ambled to the front and joined Father McKenzie. “It is my pleasure,” he began, but was interrupted as the door slammed open. 

“Am I too late?” a vaguely familiar voice panted out as most of the congregation turned to see who it was. Harriet clocked Mrs. Weasley’s startled gasp before she realised just who it was that had burst in- red hair carefully combed back and in pristine dove grey robes, there stood Percy. “Only, when I heard my little brother was getting married, well, I wanted to do the Ministry bindings.” He hurried to the front, where the bottle-green robed wizard opened and closed his mouth in shock: he was not the only one to be doing so. 

“No… no, I was just about to start,” Green-robes muttered. 

Percy smiled: a tight, tiny smile. “Excellent. In that case…”

“No.”

Percy looked at Ron in surprise. “Pardon?” 

“No,” Ron repeated. “You can leave now. I don’t want you here.”

Percy leaned closer: probably only those standing at the very front could have heard. “Ronald, I’m your brother,” Percy said in condescending tones. 

“No, you’re not,” Ron replied with finality. “Get out.” 

Harriet watched the exchange, wide-eyed. Should she try to get rid of pink, pompous Percy? How? It turned out, she didn’t need to. It surprised everyone when the one to march a still-blustering Percy from the room was a stony-faced Severus Snape. Two long, pale hands clamped around Percy’s shoulders and propelled him most firmly from the room. As the sound of his protests dwindled, the congregation were left in shocked silence- well, mostly silence. Mrs. Weasley was gasping, and, after a few minutes, a couple of shocked whispers began. Imogen was staring wide-eyed at Ron. Ron glared at Green-robes. “Well?” he snapped. 

“Yes… yes,” Green-robes stuttered. “As I was saying… it is my pleasure to join this couple in Wizarding law. If both of you would please draw your wands…”

Harriet, keeping half an eye on the door, noted Severus slipping quietly back in and taking his seat beside Hagrid. She wondered what he’d done with Percy; she wondered why he’d intervened. Although, if he hadn’t, the twins would probably have frog marched him none too gently away: they held more animosity for their pompous brother than most. Harriet turned her attention back to Ron and Imogen in time to see sparkling strands of light wrap around their wands, binding them together, then twisting up their arms. That was rather more what she’d expected to see in a magical wedding. At least it hadn’t been a complete disappointment.

She obediently followed Ron and Imogen from the chapel, Faye and Ginny just behind her, as they’d been instructed. As the guests drifted into the courtyard, though, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering, not really all there in the moment.

There were whispers and exclamations of surprise about Percy’s appearance. She let her gaze sweep the gathering to find Severus. Dressed all in his habitual severe black, he was not hard to spot amongst the more colourful attendees. He stood in the far corner, in the shadows beneath the awnings, his face wreathed in shadow. His back was pressed to the wall: he wouldn’t admit it, but he still felt weak, even almost two weeks after he’d been attacked. His dark eyes met Harriet’s and flicked away, his face twisted in his usual sneer. The message was as clear as if he’d whispered in her ear. ‘We are in public. You are Harriet Potter, I, Professor Snape, bat of the dungeons. We hate one another. Act like it.’

Harriet suppressed a sigh. She knew he was right. She turned towards Fred and George instead, who were discussing Percy’s appearance in heated tones. Fred was all for finding out where Percy had gone and, in his words, ‘teaching him a lesson’. George only pointed out that Ron and Imogen didn’t need another scene at their wedding. Neither of them paid any attention to Harriet, so she wandered away. That was a family matter, not one for her. 

There was a crowd of well-wishers around Ron and Imogen. She didn’t want to go anywhere near that. She spotted Luna, though, standing alone a little way away, swaying on her tiptoes. With her arms held just slightly away from her body, she looked like some kind of ethereal bird, just about to take flight, her silver hair a nimbus around her. The soft silver-grey dress she wore didn’t shatter the illusion. She turned her head as Harriet approached. “Hello,” she said softly. “Have you come to listen too?”

“Listen to what?” Harriet asked, though she knew that could be a mistake. Who knew what Luna could hear that the rest of them would think pure nonsense?

“Just listen,” Luna whispered back with a smile and a slight head tilt. Harriet’s gaze followed the direction Luna had indicated, and she strained her ears. Luna was listening to Professor McGonagall and the wizard from the Ministry? Why?

The pillars were good cover. She crept closer, putting the stone support between her and the conversants, the heavy boughs of the wisteria hiding her small frame perfectly. It was only as she moved closer that she realised that this was what Severus was doing too: listening in the shadows. He could see her, even if McGonagall and Green-robes couldn’t. He cocked an eyebrow, but made no move to send her on her way. 

“I still think it’s highly unusual,” Green-robes was protesting. “I’d have thought Albus would move heaven and earth to attend an event like this at his own school. The feasts and festivals have always been the highlight of the year for him. I’m a school governor, you know. I know these things. No one can ever shut him up about the Valentine’s day decorations.”

“As a governor, Mr. Lawless, I’m sure you’re also aware that the Headmaster has not been well this year. He is conserving all his strength for the necessities: making decisions about the school, and advising those in the ministry. I assure you, the bride and groom are not in any way offended. It is not a personal affront.”

Harriet had to suppress a giggle at Green-robes name. Lawless? He was working for the ministry, and his name was Lawless? She couldn’t giggle whilst eavesdropping, though, so she had to content herself with a very quiet snort. She was sure Hermione would have told her off for being unladylike, but Hermione was in the crowd around the newlyweds.

“I rather think I might pop up to see Albus,” Lawless Green-robes was saying. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen him- he wasn’t at the last governors’ meeting, you know?”

“I do know,” McGonagall replied primly. “I was there, if you recall. But I’m afraid Albus simply isn’t receiving visitors of any kind at the moment. He’s caught a rather nasty chill, and as you know, is already fighting off the effects of a curse.”

“I have an excellent healer,” Lawless continued. “I shall have him visit the Headmaster as soon as ever he can. We shall see what can be made of this illness with a decent healer.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Professor McGonagall stated firmly. “I assure you, Albus has the best care.”

Lawless did not sound overly convinced. “Oh?” he sniffed disdainfully. “Who his his healer?”

Severus cut in then; Harriet hadn’t noticed him move. “I am,” he said darkly. 

Lawless choked back a laugh. “And who are you? A Potions teacher?”

“I am a mediwizard and regarded as one of the foremost potioneers in Europe,” Severus replied smoothly. “I assure you, I am quite capable of seeing to Albus with the help of the school matron. He is insistent that no others should see him: he is somewhat embarrassed about his condition.”

Harriet heard no more: that was the moment Dean and Seamus chose to bound up to Harriet, dragging her off towards the drinks table. She let herself be towed: she might as well try to join in the fun.


	78. Life will find a way

There was already a little huddle when Harriet got down to the quidditch pitch, broom over one shoulder. Jimmy, Anna and Linda all leaned in close, chattering excitedly. “Hey guys,” Harriet called. 

Anna looked up. “Oooh, is it true?” she asked, her eyes wide and shining.

Harriet frowned. “Is what true?”

“Why Pansy Parkinson’s left?” Linda supplied. 

“I didn’t know she’d gone. We’re not exactly friends.” She looked around. “Has anyone fetched the balls yet?”

Anna dropped her broom and scuttled off towards the shed. Harriet winced to see the broom carelessly abandoned on the ground, and bent to pick it up. It may be old: a Cleansweep five, but it was a solid model with the staying power for a beater. It didn’t deserve to be dropped and left on the ground. “Well, you’re friends with Draco Malfoy,” Jimmy pointed out.

“Draco Snape,” Harriet corrected reflexively. In hindsight, people had become used to her new name very quickly compared to Draco’s change in identity. Then again, at least she’d looked different. That probably made it easier to remember.

Jimmy shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. Is it true, though?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Start at the beginning,” she instructed. 

“You didn’t hear at breakfast?” Linda asked. 

Harriet shrugged. “I skipped breakfast,” she admitted. She hadn’t felt much like eating lately, though she’d nibbled through one of the Danish pastries Dobby had delivered to her room, quite unsolicited. 

“Well, apparently Pansy left late last night. Lysander Jamison said she was fetched by her father just after curfew last night, and the rumour is that she’s going to get married to Lucius Malfoy!” 

“That can’t be true,” Harriet said with a frown. “Narcissa Malfoy’s barely cold in her grave.”

Anna returned with the box of balls, aided by Ginny. “Hey, have you heard?” Ginny asked, dropping her end of the trunk with a thump. “Apparently Pansy Parkinson’s getting married to Lucius Malfoy. I heard that there were engagement contracts being drawn up between Pansy and Draco, and they just changed the name!”

“This is ridiculous,” Harriet snapped. “You know how the gossip goes in this place- you can’t believe half of what you hear. Now, we’re here to play quidditch, not figure out what happened to Pansy Parkinson! It’s none of our bloody business anyway!”

“Where’s Ron?” Dean asked, having arrived just in time to hear Harriet’s rant. “He wasn’t in bed…”

Harriet sighed, thrusting Anna’s broom back at her. “Given that last night was his  _ wedding night _ , I don’t think I can reasonably expect him to come to training, now, can I?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” Dean agreed. “Sorry, still half asleep. Forgot he wasn’t living in the dorm anymore…”

Harriet rolled her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “Three laps, please, then we’re doing bludger practice.”

Linda groaned. She hated dodging bludgers. 

Flying was when Harriet could still forget. She could stop worrying about what had happened to her parents, stop thinking about Voldemort. The heavy weight of loneliness, of missing Robin, seemed to be left behind on the ground as she soared, weaving in and out of the goalposts for the sheer joy of feeling her broom tip and tilt at her slightest movement, almost at thought rather than conscious movement. She still resented what had happened to her firebolt, but she and the Peregrine were friends now. They went together. 

Dean and Anna suffered glancing bludger blows, and Linda and Jimmy both took full on hits- for the beaters, it was difficult to get used to dodging. They were more used to taking bludgers head on, but Harriet had made them leave their bats on the ground and fly their way free. She’d seen beaters drop their bats in matches before: they needed a second line of defence, and the rest of the team needed to not rely on the beaters so heavily, in case they were injured.

By the time Harriet called a halt, tossing Anna and Jimmy their bats to beat the bludgers back down into their restraints, Linda had a lump coming up on the side of her head and Jimmy was sporting a narrow trickle of blood. Harriet suspected that there would be various other bruises too. “Okay, everyone, that’ll do for today. Linda, go and get your head seen to by Madam Pomfrey, please. I’m trying to get a friendly organised with Ravenclaw in the next few weeks, so we’ll get a proper game soon.”

Her players scattered, ambling back up to the castle. Ginny fell in beside Harriet. “You seen Ron’s new place yet?” she asked.

“Very briefly, last night,” Harriet said. “I had to take them up, didn’t I? Imogen was pretty tired though, so I just left them to it…”

Ginny sniggered. “Would we have got married, d’you think?” she asked when she’d recovered from her giggling fit. “Had kids?”

It was the first time since their truce that Ginny had raised their past relationship. “I, erm… I don’t think so, Gin,” Harriet said. “It wasn’t that it was you, you know? I just wasn’t into girls, even then.”

The sigh that escaped Ginny was heavy, as if all her deepest thoughts rode on it. “I know,” she said ruefully. “I guess I always knew, even then… It was just like you were going through the motions, you know? I guess it’s why I never really pushed it. I was scared that if we ended up in bed together, you wouldn’t have been able to... you know, get it up?” She laughed hollowly. “I didn’t want to admit that I could even think it, but it would have been pretty humiliating, you know?”

“For me too,” Harriet muttered. She looked across at Ginny, the flames of her hair licking the breeze. Ginny was pretty, she thought. Fine featured, with lovely warm eyes. “You’ll find someone, Ginny. It’ll all work out. Marriage, babies… it’ll happen.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose, delicate little creveasses appearing. “I’m not all that sure I want babies,” she said as they climbed the steps to the main doors. “Mum was run ragged with all of us. And Imogen, having triplets… ugh! The very idea of not one, but three babies… it makes my skin crawl! I want to have a life! I don’t want to spend my life changing nappies and singing nursery rhymes. I don’t even know what you do with babies. They just kind of… lie there. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Erm?” Harriet offered as she held the door open for Ginny. “I dunno. I suppose i’ve never thought about it that much. People just kind of have kids, don’t they?”

Ginny tossed her head with a snort. “Just because my brother’s too much of an idiot to figure out contraceptive potions,” she dismissed, “doesn’t mean all of us are. We’ve got the ability to say no to kids, we just lack the conviction. It’s not like my family need any help keeping the bloodline going in any case.”

“Well, I’m the last of the Potters, so…”

Ginny grew serious. “Yeah, you are. I never thought of that, you know. Maybe it is a good thing that we couldn’t stay together.Having a baby would put paid to a professional quidditch career, at least for a few years, and that can make all the difference at the top level. Having kids can wreck your body.” She stopped at the foot of the grand staircase. “You gonna come up to see Ron and Imogen later?” she said. “We don’t see you in the common room so much anymore.”

Harriet gave a little smile. “Maybe I will,” she said. She didn’t want to say that part of the reason she’d avoided the common room so much was the attitude of her housemates, driven by people like Lavender, and, until recently, Ginny herself. 

“Well, we can’t leave my brother to shag all day,” Ginny added with a wink.

“Ginny!” Harriet cried, but Ginny just giggled, already bounding up the stairs two at a time. Harriet shook her head and took herself and her broomstick off towards her own room. 

She was casting the third drying charm on her unruly hair following a shower when her wards chimed. Grumbling under her breath, Harriet dropped the towel she had wrapped about her body and shrugged on a convenient robe before opening the door. She clutched it tight around her: she had imagined it would just be Hermione, looking for a quiet place to do some homework. But she was greeted not by Hermine, infuriatingly cheerful, but by an oddly rumpled-looking Draco. He looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry: his robes were wrinkled. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Draco wear anything that was less than perfectly presented. “Can I come in for a bit?” he asked quietly. “I just want to be somewhere no one else can find me… I won’t get in your way.”

“Erm, yeah, whatever,” Harriet said, letting him in. “You wouldn’t rather be in Severus’ rooms?”

Draco cocked a pale eyebrow. “And risk finding him and the undoubtedly lovely Miss Granger  _ in flagrante delicto _ ?” he asked sardonically. “That, Potter, is an image I do not need.” He dropped a bulging bag on her table. 

Harriet muttered indistinctly, gathered up some clothes and scuttled to the bathroom to dress. She dragged her jeans over the damp skin of her legs, cursing their catching and rubbing, swore as she struggled to hook her bra in a hurry and grumbled as her t-shirt tangled in her hair. 

Draco gave her an odd look as she reemerged. “Shall I leave?” he asked.

“No. Why would you?”

“Well, I can’t recall the last time I visited anyone to have them vanish into their bathroom, mutter and swear, and reemerge wearing entirely different clothing.”

“I’d just got out of the shower,” she mumbled in explanation. “I wasn’t dressed yet.”

“You could have told me to go away,” he pointed out. 

Harriet shrugged. “Only took a moment,” she grumbled. “Why’re you hiding, anyway?”

“You haven’t heard?” he asked. “Great Merlin, clearly Gryffindors just aren’t up early enough to catch the news. My  _ esteemed _ pater has just announced his intentions to wed a woman… no, a girl, one less than half his age.”

“Do you mean… Pansy?” Harriet asked. “I… I heard she left last night.”

Draco tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. They’re getting married in three months. According to the  _ Prophet _ , anyway. Not like I’d know any other way. After all, I had to hear about my own Mother’s death through the thrice-damned  _ Prophet _ .” He was still very bitter about that, and it showed through. Harriet couldn’t blame him; in fact, she felt quite guilty. Draco had wanted to take Narcissa with them, on the night that Severus and Draco had rescued them, and it was only Severus’ insistence on keeping the girls safe that had stopped them. In a roundabout way, Harriet had a hand in Narcissa Malfoy’s death- an undoubtedly unpleasant one at the hands of Lucius Malfoy- or even Voldemort himself.

“I didn’t actually believe that rumour,” Harriet said softly. “I’m, erm, sorry? It must be awful having your dad marry so soon after your mum died.”

Draco snorted. “A tip. If you hear something and think ‘Lucius Malfoy couldn’t possibly be so cold as to do that’... well, chances are he already has. It’s practically foolproof.”

Harriet finally tucked herself into the seat opposite Draco. “You think so little of your father?” she asked.

“Well, he’s not exactly a paragon of virtue,” Draco pointed out. “But then, none of us are. Anyway, you mind if I stay here for a bit? I just want to get on with this Arithmancy homework without people peering around the shelves in the library and whispering.”

Harriet had had enough of secret glances and whispers about her in her own life. If it hadn’t been for having her own room this year, she’d have suffered far worse, she was sure. At least here, she could hide away. She couldn’t begrudge Draco wanting the same thing. They sat in companionable near-silence until lunchtime, and Draco even checked over her Runes work and suggested improvements to her more long-winded translation methods. She knew she’d get faster when she had all the meanings down, but for now, each sentence was a slog through books and an attempt to wrangle the definitions into something meaningful. Runes just had far too broad a meaning for her liking: sometimes it felt like she was writing divination homework given the amount of sense she got out of some passages. 

By lunchtime, Draco insisted he could manage. “You know how it goes,” he said as they wandered to the Great Hall. “At breakfast, everyone is bouncing with glee at gossip, but by lunch, something more exciting will have happened.”

Harriet hoped he was right, although it made a refreshing change to have people talking about something that wasn’t her, and had nothing to do with her. Draco walked to the end of the Slytherin table with his back held straight and his head regally high, though he still chose to sit alone below the first years. At least, he told himself it was a choice. If it was his choice to do this, then the snubs of his peers were not a reflection on him. 

Ron was badgering Imogen when Harriet joined them. “I just think you should get it checked over,” he was saying. 

“Honestly, anyone would think you were the pregnant one, the amount you’re worrying,” Imogen replied as she piled her plate. “I’m sure everything’s fine. Yesterday was a long day, it’s probably just that.”

“What’s wrong?” Harriet asked. 

“Just Ron fussing,” Imogen said with a smile. “Did you go back to the party last night, after you’d taken us back to the tower?”

“Nah, didn’t really feel like it,” Harriet said. She’d somehow felt very alone amongst all those people. More and more, she seemed to be growing away from her schoolmates. They didn’t know what her life was like now. She attended lessons and meals and played quidditch, discussed quidditch news or participated in occasional games of chess, but her life seemed to centre around other things now, other people. To think that she’d come to consider Severus as one of her closest friends would have seemed ridiculous, but now, having to hide the friendship made her social connections seem hollow, false. 

Ron was having none of the distraction techniques. “Just go and see Madam Pomfrey, Im. Or Snape, I don’t care. Just make sure everything’s okay!”

“I don’t want to fuss them over nothing, Ron,” Imogen said patiently. “Besides, I don’t even know how to find Professor Snape. He’s not even here. And Madam Pomfrey said she wasn’t really good when it came to pregnancy stuff. I’m the first pregnant student she’s ever had here.”

“I can take you down to see Severus,” Harriet said before her brain could connect with her mouth. How could she have forgotten that Imogen didn’t know about how much time Harriet had spent with Severus? But she’d been around so much the last few months that it seemed bizarre that she didn’t know about Severus, about Robin. 

True to suspicion, Imogen was looking at her oddly. “How do you know where he lives?” she asked. “And  _ Severus _ ?”

Harriet nibbled her lip. “I did some private lessons with him,” she said, settling on the simplest explanation. “In his quarters, sometimes. He’s not as bad as he makes out.”

“But you call him by his first name?” Imogen pressed. “I mean, I can understand the lessons, but… the name? I get that he’s not actually as scary as he makes out- he’s been really nice to me- but I can’t imagine him letting me use his first name! And he’s had his hands somewhere you don’t want to know about!” Ron winced. Harriet suppressed a grin. Now was not the time to point out that Severus had had his hands in similarly unmentionable places on her. For one, she’d probably make Ron throw up his lunch.

“He’s my godfather,” she explained quietly, her voice barely above a whisper to prevent prying ears. “It’s not something that he exactly wants spread about, but he and my mother were actually really good friends. He was her midwife too.”

“I didn’t know that!” Ron burst out.

“Keep it down, will you?” Harriet hissed. “Like I said, he doesn’t want anyone else knowing. Not going to do much for his image, and it’s pretty difficult to explain, isn’t it? But if you think about it… she had to have me kind of secretly, so she could pretend I was a boy. So she’d have had to have me at home, with a midwife she trusted...”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “It’s still kind of weird, you know?” he grumped. “Thinking of Snape looking at lady bits like that.” He shuddered. “You still need to get it checked, Im. Don’t think you can just change the subject and I’ll forget!”

“What’s wrong?” Harriet asked again, pleased to be able to change the subject herself. She was still cursing herself for being so stupid as to reveal her familiarity with Severus.

“Nothing,” Imogen replied patiently. “Just a touch of stomachache, that’s all. Ron’s just worrying over nothing. I’m sure Professor Snape doesn’t want to be bothered. He has more important things going on.” She turned back to her plate.

Ron won the battle; it was quite possible that Imogen capitulated through sheer boredom at Ron’s one track insistence. “You just want to hear them again,” she accused as Harriet led them down the winding dungeon corridor that led to the front entrance to Severus’ quarters.

Ron’s eyes lit up. “That was amazing!” he enthused. “He had this spell,” he explained to Harriet, “and you could hear the heartbeats! It was awesome! Hey, d’you think he could do it again? Maybe so Harriet can hear?”

“I doubt Harriet’s all that interested, Ron,” Imogen said, darting an apologetic smile at Harriet.

Harriet thought of Ginny stating that she didn’t want children, and yet, Ron seemed delighted by the prospect now that he was mostly used to the idea. Ron was her friend, she mused… she should show interest. And… well, it did sound interesting. She knew so very little about the whole pregnancy and babies thing. “Actually, I’d like that… as long as you don’t mind?”

“No, not at all,” Imogen replied, actually looking quite pleased. “I don’t want to bore you with loads of baby stuff, though.”

Harriet shrugged. “Seems like a good way for me to learn about all the baby stuff, see if I like it, if I want to have any.”

“Careful,” Imogen said as Harriet rapped sharply on the head of the dragon-door guardian. “You might end up being chief babysitter at this rate. Let’s face it, three babies, two pairs of arms between us…”

Severus was drawn up to full height, in his teaching regalia as he answered the door. “Potter. Weasley. Mistress Weasley. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Please, Professor, Imogen’s not feeling well,” Ron piped up, surprising Harriet. Ron, taking the lead when it came to his least favourite teacher?

Severus uttered a noncommittal grunt. “Very well. I shall accompany you to the hospital wing.”

Imogen groaned. Severus turned his dark gaze to her. “Is there a problem, Mistress Weasley?”

“That’s another five flights of stairs,” she moaned. “Can’t we do it here?”

“It would be most improper for me to examine you without a chaperone,” Severus reminded her.

Imogen shrugged. “Ron’s here,” she pointed out. “And Harriet too. Please. I really don’t want to have to go all the way to the hospital wing then all the way back across the castle to Gryffindor.”

Severus cocked an eyebrow. “Very well,” he replied. “You had better come in. Miss Potter is staying, I presume?”

“Yes, please,” Imogen replied brightly. “I don’t mind. I hope you don’t mind, Professor, that she mentioned that you were her godfather, and midwife to her mother. It was very reassuring to see a healthy specimen of your work.” 

Imogen might have breezed casually past a silent Severus, taking Ron in her wake, but Harriet knew Severus well enough by now to recognise that he was keeping his mask very firmly on and covering his anger. His hand snapped out to enclose her upper arm in a claw-like gesture as soon as she’d shut the door. “Do you go around sharing this information liberally?” he hissed. “I thought you had more sense. Clearly, I was mistaken!”

“Hey!” Harriet said back keeping her voice to a whisper despite her annoyance. “I’m not stupid! It just kind of came out! She doesn’t know about Robin, or anything like that, just that you’re my godfather and that you’ve given me private occlumency lessons. Keep your hair on!”

Severus released her with a low growl of frustration. “You should learn to keep your mouth shut!” He stalked into the living room, his demeanour changing immediately. “Sit down, Mistress Weasley,” he instructed, though reasonably gently. 

“It’s weird to hear someone call me that,” Imogen said softly. “I’m not used to it. Could you maybe please call me by my first name? I’m more comfortable with that.”

“As you wish,” Severus replied. “Now, what brings you here?”

She looked down at the ground. “It’s silly really. It’s just a bit of stomach ache. It comes and goes.”

“How long has this been happening?” Severus asked, then, turning his head, asked Harriet to fetch him the footstool tucked next to his chair. He settled on it before Imogen, listening intently to her responses to his questions. Harriet tuned out, curling herself onto one of Robin’s cushions that seemed to have taken up semi- permanent residence beside Severus’ fireplace. Sheba came to investigate her as Severus cast a few spells, coloured lights trickling over Imogen’s midsection. He sat back. “I believe you are experiencing false labour,” he explained. “It is perfectly normal, though it is happening a little earlier than usual. It is nothing to worry about, although I would suggest that you take it as a sign to rest. It is usually brought on by exertion. Are you finding that you are becoming tired more easily?”

Imogen smiled weakly. “A bit,” she said. “I know it’ll probably get worse though, so I’ve just got to get through it.”

Severus fixed her with a steely glare. “Pregnancy is very hard on a witch’s body. Remember that they are feeding off your magic as well as your food and energy. You absolutely must take adequate time to rest. If necessary, you can be moved to more central quarters- your health is by far more important than staying with your housemates. You must not over exert yourself. Unfortunately, pepper up and other energy-giving potions are contraindicated during pregnancy as they raise blood pressure, and yours is already a touch higher than I would like.”

“The babies are okay, though?” Imogen asked. 

Severus nodded. “Your children are healthy.”

Ron piped up. “Could you please do the spell where we can hear the heartbeats?” he asked excitedly. 

Severus gave a sigh more for theatrical purposes than anything else and raised his wand, muttering a spell. The room filled with a soft ‘whoosh’ and thump of three rapid little hearts. A broad grin spread across Ron’s face, and he squeezed Imogen’s hand before shooting a thumbs up at Harriet.

Even Severus had to smile a little. There might be war all around them, intrigue and danger and evil, but life carried on. Life always found a way.  


	79. Headlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some really, really lovely reviews of late, so thank you all- it's always very much appreciated, and really does keep me writing! Plot is going to start happening again now, so I hope you enjoy!

The gasp began at the Ravenclaw table, followed by a short scream from the Hufflepuffs. Hermione yelped as she unfolded her  _ Prophet _ thirty seconds behind the first Ravenclaw. When Harriet leaned over to see, her heart seemed to stop in her chest. At the head table, the professors unfurled their own copies. 

**ALBUS DUMBLEDORE DEAD!** the headline proclaimed, topping a picture of Dumbledore taken during the Triwizard tournament, congratulating Cedric Diggory following the dragon task. Harriet snatched the paper.

_ This reporter has the miserable task of informing you, reader, of the death of the great wizard Albus Dumbledore. It is suspected that he may have expired some weeks or even months ago, his passing kept a secret for unknown and possibly nefarious reasons by the acting Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Minerva McGonagall. The underhanded deception was discovered only when devoted servant to the Ministry of Magic, Harrison Lawless, visited the school and was unable to see the late Headmaster, prompting him to raise the alarm with his superiors at the Ministry. _

Professor McGonagall’s magically enhanced voice cut through the raucous din. “Silence!” she called. “Everybody, remain in your seats and all shall be explained!”

“Is he really dead?” a Gryffindor fifth year shouted.

“Yeah, we wanna see Dumbledore!” a Hufflepuff yelled in encouragement. 

“Silence!” Professor McGonagall called, and finally, the panicked shouting fell away, leaving only whispers and the sobs of a tiny first year Hufflepuff.

McGonagall stood at the lectern before the head table. She held her habitual pointed hat before her, loosely drooping from her fingers. She ended the magical amplification of her voice, relying only on her own vocal power, honed from a lifetime of teaching. “For those of you who do not have a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ before you, I regret to inform you that Professor Dumbledore has passed away. He was afflicted…”

She was interrupted by a shout from the Slytherin table. “It says here that you killed him!” The outcry was enough to start the mass panic again, people springing up, shouting, crying.

Severus stood, leaning forward to slam his hands down upon the board of the head table, setting plates and goblets rattling. “Silence!” he thundered. “I will have silence!” The roar from the usually terrifyingly soft-spoken teacher was enough to shock the hall into complete silence. Severus stalked down from the head table to the Slytherin table. Gripping the Slytherin who’d called out by his shoulder length hair, he yanked the boy’s face around to him. “You will show respect for your professors, Williamson,” he hissed, audible in the room so silent that a pin hitting the floor would be noticeable. “Twenty points from Slytherin.” He released the boy’s head and melded into the shadows at the corner of the room, leaving all the other occupants still in stony, terrified silence. 

“Thank you,” Professor McGonagall said dryly. “Mr. Filch, if you would be so good as to shut the doors? It saddens me that we must physically contain our students, but I think it is unfortunately necessary.” She waited, her flinty eyes sweeping over the assembled body of students as the caretaker shut the heavy doors with a clang, standing before them as a guard, though what one squib could really do if four hundred magical schoolchildren decided to swamp him was anybody’s guess.

“As I was saying before that interruption,” McGonagall continued, “sadly Professor Dumbledore has indeed passed away. The information, regrettably, was suppressed to ensure the safety of Hogwarts and all students. It is highly likely that He-who-must-not-be-named will take advantage of this time of disruption to launch fresh attacks, and the school is a likely target. Thus, it has been agreed that the school should be evacuated of anyone under the age of majority as we assess the situation. I’m afraid that, for the time being, Hogwarts can no longer be considered a safe space.”

By now, a stunned silence had replaced the whispers. McGonagall carried on. “All students under the age of seventeen will return immediately to their common rooms. Your departure by floo will be organised by your heads of house: please gather your belongs and be ready to leave in one hour. Any students over the age of seventeen: as you are of age, you have a decision. You may return home with the other students, or you may remain here to continue studying for your examinations. I warn you that it is extremely likely that the castle will be attacked by He-who-must-not-be-named within the coming days. If you do stay, you will be putting yourselves at risk, and it is highly likely that you will see combat. I advise you to return home, but I cannot make that decision of conscience for you, and I recognise that there are those among you who may wish to fight for the school you have come to love as a home from home. Those who wish to leave, please go to your common rooms with your heads of house. Those who wish to stay, please remain in the great hall.”

The heads of house had clearly all been briefed on this. Harriet wondered if this evacuation plan had always been in place or if they’d all known about Dumbledore: Sprout and Flitwick seemed no more shocked than Lupin or Severus. She watched Sprout and Flitwick gather up their students, sending them off in crocodiles headed by prefects. Severus needed only walk down the length of his table, his hand resting briefly on the shoulders of chosen students, and somehow, his house cleared. Three lone students remained: Draco, Daphne Greengrass and Hamish Leeson, a half-blooded sixth year. A handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs remained also. 

Lupin crouched behind them. “Staying, or going?” he asked quietly. “I presume, Harriet, that you will stay?”

“Of course,” she replied, astounded that he’d even asked. Where else would she go? And it was her that Voldemort wanted anyway. “It’s not like I could go anywhere else even if I wanted to.”

“There’s always Grimmauld place?” Lupin suggested gently. Harriet shook her head emphatically. He did not push the issue. She was right in thinking she was best here: heartless as it might seem, she was the bait. Instead, he turned to Imogen. “You should probably not be here,” he said softly. “Will you go home? Or we can organise a safe house somewhere.”

She looked up at him. “What are we fighting for but a better world for my children?” she asked. “I’ll do whatever I can, and I think that means being here.”

“If you were hurt…” Lupin pointed out.

“Then I could lose the babies. I know. But I don’t want them to be born into a world where You-know-who’s in charge. I’d rather they weren’t born at all than that”

.Lupin’s face twisted oddly. “You could be a liability in battle,” he said. “Your friends are liable to rush to protect you instead of keeping their positions. And don’t you think it rather foolhardy? You will be risking four lives, not just one.”

“With respect, Sir, I am of age and this is my choice to make. I know Ron will stay, and my place is with him. I’m staying, Professor.” Imogen reached for Ron’s hand, and he smiled sadly at her. This was a discussion they’d had. Ron knew better than almost anyone that there would at some point, be fighting in the war to defeat Voldemort, and it was clear that he was likely to be in the thick of it. There was no way Imogen would let him go off and be the hero whilst she sat home and fretted: it wasn’t in her nature. 

Lupin turned away sadly, leaving them. Every seventh year Gryffindor had chosen to stay, along with all the sixth years who’d already reached their seventeenth birthday. Ginny, too sat amongst them, though she was just sixteen. Lupin tapped her on the shoulder. “Time to go, Ginny,” he said.

With a huff worthy of any toddler tantrum, Ginny followed him. “Did she really think your mum wouldn’t notice?” Harriet asked Ron quietly. 

“Dunno,” Ron replied quietly, his thumb brushing repetitively over the side of Imogen’s hand. “Is this it, then? D’you really think there’s going to be an attack?”

“Everyone always said that Dumbledore was the only one he was afraid of,” Hermione pointed out quietly. “And everyone knows that he wants Harriet. So, if Harriet’s here, then…”

The subject of the conversation twisted her fingers awkwardly in her lap. Yes, she was the reason that so many people were willing to put themselves in danger. How she hated that! She didn’t have time to dwell on it though, for McGonagall was speaking again. “Thank you,” the professor said quietly. “All of you are old enough to know by now the threat that we face from He-who-must-not-be-named: it has shadowed your lives these past three years. You have read about the deaths in the papers, perhaps even known someone who was killed. You’re all old enough to remember the death of Cedric Diggory. To begin, let me say this: I cannot guarantee your safety if you stay. In fact, if you choose to stay, I will take it as read that you will fight with me, with us, against He-who-must-not-be-named. If you do not wish to see combat, please, take your leave, and you will be informed when the school is safe again.”

She paused. Harriet looked around: there were some worried faces. A Ravenclaw sixth year looked a little green. She stood, quietly scuttled from the hall. No one else moved. The silence lay heavy, coating the long, empty tables, reflecting back the dull enchanted sunlight from their polished surface. After a minute more of waiting, Professor McGonagall sighed heavily. “I hope that we all come through this unscathed,” she informed them.

Ernie Macmillan piped up. “Do you really think it will come to a fight, Professor? After all, surely it’s the wards around Hogwarts, and not the Headmaster that kept You-know-who away?”

Professor McGonagall nodded wearily. “Yes, Mr. Macmillan, I really do think it will come to that. This castle… the school… it is a very important strategic position, second only to the Ministry itself. If He-who-must-not-be-named commands the school, he commands the education and indoctrination of the wizarding children. With that aside, the building itself is old, well protected, unplottable… a perfect base whilst he aims to take the ministry.”

Ernie tinged slightly green, sinking back onto his bench. Dean, though, didn’t look in the least afraid. “I’m pleased,” he said, his voice ringing clearly across the depleted audience. “I’m pleased that it’s coming to a head. We’ve all lived in fear for too long!” A cheer greeted his assertion from the Gryffindor table, and more downplayed nods and murmurs of assent came from the others gathered. Dean was into his stride now. He stood: not only stood, he climbed on his bench. “We’ll fight him! We’ll win too! We’ve got Potter. We’ve got young blood- what’s he got- a pile of aging Death Eaters?”

Harriet debated the merits of climbing under the table, but, luckily, all eyes were on Dean, not on her. In fact, the cheer this time was louder, and even McGonagall managed a tight smile. “Thank you, Mr. Thomas, for your vote of confidence,” she said.

“I’m not finished, Professor!” he called out. “See, I think we can win, that we’re gonna win, but I think there’s something in our way. Why are  _ they _ here?” He swung to turn an accusing finger to the three remaining Slytherins.

“Mr. Thomas!” Professor McGonagall gasped. “That is not the attitude…”

Harriet had sprung up though. “That’s not fair!” she cried. “They have as much right as any of us to be here!”

Dean looked down at her with an odd frown. “Really, Potter?” he asked incredulously. “They’re Slytherins! They’re the enemy! They’re probably all marked Death Eaters!”

“Mr. Thomas! If you intend to fight alongside your….” Professor McGonagall snapped, but the hall had descended into chaos again, voices and calls and even a few boos, though whether for the Slytherins or Dean, it was difficult to tell. Lavender was on her bench now too. 

“Yeah!” she called out. “How do we know they’re on our side?”

“Voldemort doesn’t make children Death Eaters, idiot!” Harriet shouted back, her voice rising to crescendo to try to be heard over the din. She failed. Giving up, she marched to the Slytherin table. Daphne looked like the might cry, and Hamish wasn’t far off himself. Draco sat, calm, head down. “Come on,” Harriet snapped to him. “Roll up your damn sleeves!”

Draco looked up enough to arch a barely-visible blond eyebrow. “What difference would it make?” he said. “They’ll hate me anyway. They’re all baying for blood: better to wait it out.”

“Look around you,” harriet snapped, not caring for his defeatist attitude. “Do you see Hermione demanding you leave? How about Imogen, or… look, even Ron. Ron’s always hated you, and yet, he’s not joining in.”

“Have you seen the rest of your housemates?” Draco enquired levelly. 

“They just don’t know you!” Harriet pressed. “Draco, come on! You can’t let them do this! You’re…” she floundered. “You’re letting down your house. You’re letting them believe every bad thing they’ve ever heard about Slytherin!”

“Listen to then. Me showing I’m unmarked, any of us showing we’re unmarked, isn’t going to change their minds. Like you said, the Dark Lord doesn’t mark schoolchildren, but that didn’t stop the likes of Zabini following him.” What Draco said was true: it seemed that hardly anyone had even really noticed her going to the Slytherin table. They were still shouting, arguing. McGonagall was gone: clearly she had better things to do than try to control a collection of screaming seventeen year olds. She’d left them to shout it out, reasonably certain that none of them would actually draw wands on their classmates. 

“Draco…” Harriet sighed, almost whining. “Come on. You can’t let them do this!”

Draco shrugged. “Watch me,” he suggested. “We’re used to being ridiculed, Potter. This- all this- it will calm down. They’ll get something else to fuss about, and leave us alone. It’s not what we say or do now that will prove us. Slytherins don’t work on words, we work on actions.”

“Funny,” Ron said. “I thought you snakes were all talk.” He climbed onto the Slytherin bench. “Ah! You still have bacon left. Excellent.” He reached for a clean plate and began his second breakfast. He offered Imogen the hash browns- they were a current firm favourite of hers.

All three Slytherins and Harriet gawped. “We thought you were taking rather a while, so we’d better join you,” Hermione said quietly. “That lot are too busy posturing about how great they are.” She’d brought her own teacup, but refilled it from the pot on the Slytherin table. Neville was slower to sit down, only trusting to it because Luna went first. She sat down directly by Hamish. Faye came too, sitting by Imogen.

Gradually, other students began drifting over. Hermione, Imogen and Draco had launched into a discussion about what they knew of the wards surrounding the school and the possibilities for strengthening them. Even Neville joined in with an idea of thorny plants and potions for rapid growth. Ron suggested launching bundles filled with the seeds from brooms directly into groups of Death Eaters, with the idea that delicate potions vials would break on such an impact and let loose their contents. He seemed delighted by the idea of impaling Death Eaters on half-metre thorns. 

There were some jeers as Zacharias Smith and Anthony Goldstein both joined them, but they quieted as Hannah Abbot came over. By now, there were more students seated at the Slytherin table than at any of the others. “You can’t trust ‘em, Potter!” Dean called. 

Harriet looked over her shoulder. “I already do,” she riposted. “I know them better than you think.”

“Their head of house is a Death Eater!” Seamus shouted.

Harriet shook her head. “He hasn’t been for years,” she replied. She swung her legs over the bench so she faced outwards, towards the rest of the room. “Severus Snape has not been a Death Eater since I was born.” 

The room quieted. Now everyone was listening to her. “How do you know?” Hannah Abbott asked. She didn’t speak so much with incredulity as curiosity. 

Harriet smiled. She couldn’t give the whole truth, but she hoped Severus wouldn’t mind if she twisted it a little. Maybe the dead could be of some use… and he hoped his mother wouldn’t mind her secrets spilled. “I know because he’s told me his story,” she began. “He really loved my mum, you see. She was in love with my dad, though, not Snape, but they were good friends. They grew up together.” There was utter silence now: almost everyone was seated either at the Slytherin or Ravenclaw tables, so as to hear better. There was nothing like a story of unrequited love to interest a motley collection of hormonal teenagers. Only Lavender, Parvati and Ernie Macmillan now sat at their own tables. Even Dean had moved closer. Harriet smiled. For most of her peers, this was the first time they’d hear how her sex was changed, or know which really was her original sex. “Snape doesn’t like people to know, because it’s a bit, well, girly, but he actually trained as a midwife before he became a potions master. When my mum found out she was having a girl, she asked him to help, because my dad said she had to have a boy first because of inheritance laws. If he’d found out I was a girl, he’d have made her get rid of me. Snape was her midwife, and he did the spells to make me look like a boy. He’s actually my godfather- he named me Harriet before I was changed, and given the name Harry. And when Voldemort wanted to kill me, kill my mum… Snape changed sides. He didn’t want to be part of killing the woman he loved, killing his godchild… so he started spying for Dumbledore. He’s on our side. He’s been on our side for as long as most of us have been alive.”

“So he says,” Ernie pointed out.

Harriet shrugged. “I’ve spent hours and hours alone with him. He’s been giving me private lessons. Don’t you think that if he was on Voldemort’s side, he’d have killed me or kidnapped me before now?”

“Maybe he couldn’t whilst Dumbledore was alive?” a Ravenclaw suggested. “Maybe he will now.”

“Dumbledore’s been dead almost three weeks,” Neville said. He looked surprised at himself for speaking, as if the words had spilled from his mouth without permission.

“And I’ve been alone with Snape loads since then,” Harriet said. “And if he wasn’t on our side, Voldemort would already know about Dumbledore, because Snape knows. He was there when the headmaster died.”

“He killed Dumbledore!” Lavender spat out. “I knew I didn’t like him!”

“She didn’t say he killed him, just that he was there!” Hermione snapped at her year-mate. “Didn’t you listen, you idiot? Snape’s a healer. He was there to try to save Professor Dumbledore’s life!”

“Is there anyone who can actually vouch for that, though?” Goldstein asked with a frown. “In the interests of accuracy, exploring all bases, you know…”

“I can.”

No-one knew when McGonagall had actually returned, so engrossed had they been in their arguments, and then in Harriet’s story. McGonagall strode from the door to the end of the Slytherin table, looking at the assembled group. “I was present, and I can vouch for the fact that Professor Snape did all that he could to make Professor Dumbledore as comfortable as possible in his last hours. I can also tell you that Professor Snape has very, very good reasons for siding with the light, and the chances of him defecting are less than the chances of me deciding to join He-who-must-not-be-named. And now, if you are all quite finished with your petty arguments, it would be prudent to make some plans regarding living arrangements and lessons until normality is resumed within the school. If any of you have changed your mind about staying, it is time to leave. The last students are being flooed home as we speak. I will shut the floo connections in half an hour. 

No one moved. 


	80. Preparing to be gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been so amazing with lovely reviews for me. Thank you so much!  
> I'm getting into bits of the story that I've been imagining from very early on now, and it's proving a little harder to write than I anticipated. I keep falling behind with writing whilst I try to turn the pictures in my mind into words and join them all up!   
> Here's hoping you enjoy this chapter, and I'll get working on wiring the later ones again!

Severus moved as quickly as the disillusionment charm would allow. Too fast, and it would tear, showing ragged, disjointed parts of him to anyone who cared to look. Of course, anyone who cared to look closely would see the ripple in the air: what Severus wouldn’t give for an invisibility cloak. But they were expensive, beyond expensive. No new cloaks had been made in centuries: they were handed down through family lines, lost, damaged… the only cloak he definitively knew was still in perfect condition was the one belonging to the Potters. They would be expensive if they could be bought. There was no use brooding on it, he would never get his hands on an invisibility cloak. Disillusionment would have to do. There was too much risk now in appearing outside the castle, given the events of the past day.

He used a back gate out of the Hogwarts grounds. Not many knew of it, and he tended not to use it himself, even when he was summoned by the Dark Lord. He did try to leave and come back from the main gates: he might be seen leaving, but he could usually use Hagrid’s floo. Sometimes he needed the floo: there was no way he could walk up to the castle when he was shaking and vomiting post-cruciatus. For now, though, he wanted secrecy. And secrecy meant not using the main gate. Even Minerva did not know that he was going: the last thing he needed was Hagrid telling her.

A brush of his hand over the gate to placate the wards, a muttered  _ alohomora _ to unlock it, and he could push open the wrought iron gate, hidden in a copse of trees beyond the quidditch pitch. Ten steps more, and he was beyond the anti-apparition wards of the school. With a crack and a characteristic swirl of robes that stayed even when he was alone, unobserved, Severus was gone. 

The back alley he apparated to was grubby, as back alleys tended to be. A skinny cat slunk behind a wheelie bin with a lifted lid, eyeing him balefully, one eye green, one amber. He glared back. He won the staring contest. Content with his dominance, he transfigured his clothing to more muggle attire and stalked to the end of the alleyway, turning right into the row of terraced houses. 

Across the street was a phone box. Severus crossed and carefully shut the door behind him, pulling a small sheaf of paper from his robes and peering at the muggle type. He fed the telephone coins and dialled. 

Ten minutes later, he hung up and exited the phone booth. The keys to his destination were loosely held in his hand already. He glanced up at the first floor window: curtains open and no lights on despite the falling dusk. He suppressed a growl of frustration and hoped he wouldn’t be waiting long. Time was not something he had at his disposal.

The stairs creaked as he climbed them, and the lock required a little jiggling. He only had to curse once under his breath before he gained access, however.

He winced at the state of the place. A thick layer of dust lay on the mantel, which he swept off with the slightly grubby tea towel. He cast his eyes over the pile of dirty dishes. He’d become reasonably adept at household charms before moving back to Hogwarts: the seventeen intervening years had rusted his skills somewhat. He could still manage dishwashing without getting his hands wet, though. The rest of the mess he left.

It was fully dark by the time the occupant of the room returned. Severus heard the creak of the stair. He heard the rasp of the key in the lock, the little jiggle that came of long practice and habit. He came in to find Severus sitting bolt upright in the chair before the empty fireplace. “Dad?” Robin asked. “Dad, why are you… is Harriet okay?”

Severus stood smoothly. “She is fine, Robin,” he said softly. 

“Then why are you here?” Robin asked, dropping his backpack with a loud thud. His hair was tied back, a slight sheen of oil making it shine wetly in the artificial light he’d snapped on, still in his work clothes. The pervasive aroma of coffee hung about him. “I saw yesterday’s  _ Prophet _ … they found out about Dumbledore?” He dropped his jacket on the end of his bed and reached up to tug the elastic out of his hair. 

Severus inclined his head. “Yes,” he replied softly. “As expected, the Dark Lord has reacted… quickly.”

“Quickly?” Robin parroted. “Dad, what’s going on?”

Severus sank back into the chair, and Robin perched at the edge of his bed, leaning forward with elbows on knees to get closer. “Our fears were realised. The Dark Lord has made demands now that he no longer sees Harriet as under the protection of Dumbledore.”

“Demands?” Robin asked frantically, cutting over the top of his father.

Severus glared at him. “Let me finish, boy,” he snapped. “Yes, demands. He has made the demand that Harriet should be brought to him by dawn, or he will launch an attack on Hogwarts.” Robin’s face drained of any colour it might have had. “We have evacuated almost all of the students,” Severus continued. “Only a handful of sixth and seventh years remain.”

“No… you can’t! You can’t give her to him!” Robin cried frantically. “Dad, no, you can’t let her? Does she know? She’ll want to go. She’ll go rather than put her friends in danger!”

Severus reached forward to clasp Robin’s shaking hands in his. “She knows, Robin. You’re right, her first instinct was to go to him to save others, but it does not take a genius to see that he will not stop at her. He would take her and the castle too, and Harriet understands that. She will not do anything foolhardy, Robin: her friends will not allow it.”

“Her friends are idiots,” Robin growled. Severus couldn’t really disagree: this was certainly not the time to begin considering the various merits of her largely dunderheaded classmates. He sat in silence, Robin’s hands resting tensely in his. Severus felt uncomfortable in the harshness of the electric light.

Robin’s mind was turning. If Harriet was okay, Harriet was still safe, then there could only really be one reason for Severus to come here. “You think he might succeed,” he whispered. “You think that the Dark Lord might actually win.” He looked up at his father, his dark eyes begging to be told that it wasn’t true.

Severus couldn’t tell him it wasn’t true. “It’s possible,” he hedged. “The protections surrounding Hogwarts are old and powerful. They are not, however, impenetrable. Hogwarts has long been a primary target of the Dark Lord: it was a very large part of his joy at having a spy teaching in the castle. He knows many of the school’s secrets from his own time there, from combing through the minds of his followers: if there is any man alive able to breach Hogwarts, it is he.”

“So this could be goodbye.” Robin’s voice was so soft and low that it was barely there at all. He stared at his knees resolutely.

“Yes,” Severus replied simply. He didn’t need to say that if he was brought before the Dark Lord he would surely be killed as a traitor, and he’d be very lucky if he escaped extensive torture before the fact. They were both aware of the repercussions of his defection. Voldemort did not forgive, did not give second chances. 

“Then leave!” Robin cried desperately. “Get Harriet, and leave! Go somewhere else, leave the country. We can all go and live in America, or Canada, or bloody outer Mongolia for all I care, as long as we’re safe!”

“He could still find us, child,” Severus replied huskily. “And do you think Harriet would really go, and leave others behind to fight and die for her? Most of our world believes that she is the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord.”

“How?” Robin asked. “How could he find us? And even if he did, he’s not going to come looking so far away, is he? He won’t have all his lackeys and influence in another country!”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I think you underestimate the influence at his disposal.”

“We have to try, Dad! You can’t just…. take this shit!”

“Enough!” Severus barked. “We are not, as you so eloquently put it, ‘taking this shit’. We will fight, Robin. We will fight with every weapon at our disposal: already members of the Order of the Phoenix are arriving at Hogwarts, already the wards are being strengthened and the defences mobilised. There are plans upon plans; most of us barely slept as we rehearsed so many courses of action it would make your head spin. We are not simply sitting back and allowing this to happen, but there is always risk, Robin!”

“It’s not fair!”

“Life is not fair.”

“I know,” Robin sulked. “You told me that when I had to eat broccoli, or I had to go to bed. You told me that when none of my friends were allowed to stay over because of Mum. You told me that when I didn’t get a Hogwarts letter, and when Mum died. ‘Life’s not fair, Robin,’ always, on and on. Well, what I don’t get is, why does life always have to be shit?”

“The price we pay for love is the risk of losing it,” Severus replied promptly. 

“You sound like a crap religious philosopher,” Robin groused. “Or a bereavement counsellor.”

Severus let that one go. It did seem a platitude, and he would have been annoyed if someone had said it to him. “I should go,” he said softly, releasing Robin’s hands and standing. “There is work to be done still.”

“Take me back with you.” Robin sprang to his feet. 

“Don’t be an idiot, Robin,” Severus reprimanded. “You know that it’s impossible.”

“I don’t see why it is,” Robin groused. “I want to see Harriet.”

Severus caught his son’s face between his palms, identical eyes meeting. “You know why, Robin. You know that you are helpless in this battle, you would be a hinderance.I have not done everything so that you may send yourself to death. I have made so many sacrifices these past two decades to see your safety. How could I live with myself if you died whilst I survived?”

“And how am I meant to live with myself if you die and I did nothing?” Robin countered. 

“All parents hope to predecease their children,” Severus pointed out, “and all children should expect to survive their parents.”

“Not like this!” Robin burst out. “You’re barely forty! That’s  _ young _ to die even for a muggle, and you’re a wizard!”

“Wizards and witches younger than I might die before tomorrow night,” he retorted gruffly. “You will not be one of them.” He pulled Robin against him. The rapid staccato of Robin’s heartbeat showed how scared he was; his breathing was shallow and fast. “It will become clear if Hogwarts falls,” Severus murmured roughly. “If the  _ Prophet _ ceases print, assume that the ministry has fallen. I have already requested that, in the event of my death, all the contents of my accounts should be changed to Sterling and transferred to your muggle bank. My solicitor has an up-to-date copy of my will, and he can manage everything. He is aware that matters may come to a head, I have telephoned to warn him. Like you, he is a squib- he knows how best to deal between the worlds. I have left the contact details on your desk.”

“Dad…” Robin whispered brokenly.

“Hush. Should I die, but the effort to destroy Voldemort succeeds, Minerva knows where to find you. She will consult you about funerary arrangements if at all possible: I wish for a traditional wizarding cremation should my body be recoverable.” 

The cloth at his shoulder was damp with tears. “Dad, how can you talk about this?” Robin demanded plaintively. “How can you just talk about death?”

Severus managed a weak smile, stepping back from Robin and using the hem of his sleeve to wipe away his son’s tears. “I have courted death for most of my life, Robin. If it were not for you, for the changes I made in my life because of you, I doubt I would be alive today. Whether death would have found me at the hands of the Dark Lord or the wandpoint of an auror or by suicide, I simply don’t know. If I die, I do so protecting what I think is right. Be comforted by that.”

“How can I be  _ comforted _ by anything if you’re gone?” Robin asked. 

“In time,” Severus replied. “In time, it will hurt less. You know that. You lived through your mother’s death, you will live through mine.” He took advantage of the downturned tilt of Robin’s head to kiss him lightly on the forehead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever done that. “I love you. You are the best of me… you are so much more than I ever could have been.”

“Dad… no… don’t go!”

“I must.”

Severus left Robin still standing in the middle of his room, staring at the closed door. It wasn’t until the tears were dripping annoyingly off the edge of his jaw that he finally lifted a hand to brush them away. He climbed into the far corner of his bed curling up as small as he could get, just like he’d done when he was little.

Out in the alley behind the house, Severus allowed himself the luxury of a few deep breaths. His eyes were dry, painfully so. He did not fear death for himself: what was death but the end? But he feared the torture, and his heart ached knowing that he would leave behind people who cared. It would be easier, he supposed, if he were as friendless as most supposed him. But how could he not worry about how Robin would take it? And he would like to suppose that Harriet might feel sorrow, perhaps even Draco, and that Minerva and Hagrid would remember him fondly. Hermione… she was young, she would move on, it would probably be best for her that he was not in her life. But she would probably also be upset. He may have wished it easier on them but it was some comfort in life to know that there were people who cared if he lived or died. 

His morose mental wanderings were getting him nowhere. He apparated back to the hidden gate at Hogwarts, hurrying through as fast as he could. He felt uncomfortable just outside the wards of the school: he knew that the Dark Lord and his supporters were somewhere close. They’d been sighted in Hogsmeade, but were gone too quickly for the aurors. Given that the Lord had demanded Harriet at the front gates of the school no later than dawn, he must be close. He waited until he was safely inside the wards before stopping to retransfigure his robes and cast the disillusionment again. Thus attired, he hurried back up to the castle.

The main doors were barred now, closed and locked and guarded by semi-sentient suits of armour. Not even Severus had realised quite how many protections the castle had in place: he’d thought the armour was decorative. Flitwick had joked about trying to find a suit small enough for him. 

With the main entrance blocked, Severus slipped into the only side door left unbarred. It came out close to the great hall, and he could hear the hum of activity already.

There were maps and plans of the castle and surrounding areas laid out across the house tables, plates of sandwiches and jugs of juice lying half-consumed around them. There were people everywhere: all the Weasleys with the exception of Ginny, every teacher with the exception of Trelawney, who for all her supposed powers of prediction, apparently hadn’t even noticed that her classes hadn’t turned up, other members of the Order… Kingsley was there, of course, with Nymphadora Tonks, and even Mundungus Fletcher. Thank goodness everyone had agreed that Arabella Figg would be in too much danger: she was not here. Severus was surprised to see people he had thought were neutral though. Amelia Bones presided over a discussion of the merits of trying to involve creatures from the forest (Hagrid was distraught at the idea of any creature deaths).

His eyes swept the hall, searching for Harriet, wanting to be sure that she hadn’t snuck off. Robin had been right to suppose that her first thought was to protect others and hand herself over, and Severus worried about any heroics she might intend upon. She was present, though, with Granger and Weasley loyally by her side. They’d appointed themselves something akin to guard dogs, and had even slept in her room the night before, ensuring that she couldn’t do anything stupid. All three were with Lupin and Moody, bending over the magical map of the school. He crossed to them, hoping she wouldn’t behave childishly and reuse to speak to him. They’d had words regarding her indiscretions in telling his secrets to her fellow students. Luckily, most of them had more important things on their minds than his past love life or career. 

He glanced at the unfurled map of the school, filling most of a house table when unfolded completely. The myriad corridors and rooms were empty. A mash of ink showed the locations of the gathering in the great hall, there was a lone little dot of Trelawney moving in the tower, and in one of the antechambers, Longbottom, Lovegood and Sprout gathered. Harriet looked up at him with a tiny smile: she’d have been able to track his progress up from the gate. “Where have you been?” she asked quietly. He didn’t look like he was going to shout at her again, she noted with relief.

“I had some business which needed attention,” Severus said shortly. He resisted the urge to place a hand on her shoulder. That would be over-familiar, and the last thing he needed was more gossip. “Where is Mistress Weasley?”

“Mum’s over with Bill and the twins,” Ron muttered, distracted by the map.

“I meant the younger Mistress Weasley.”

Ron looked up at him, puzzled. “Your wife?” Severus prompted with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh!” Ron said in sudden understanding, his eyes lighting as if he’d just made a  wonderful discovery. “Imogen! She’s over there.” He gestured to a shadowed corner of the hall where someone had transfigured a bench to a chair. A mop of blonde was just visible above a blanket. “She needed some rest, she’s been getting really tired. We cast a silencing sphere and left her to it. She’s been out for almost an hour now.”

Severus nodded. “Good. She needs rest.” He turned, scanning the room again to find Minerva. It wasn’t difficult: she was at the head table, surrounded by books fetched from the library. Severus was amazed to see even Irma Pince here: she rarely ventured from her stacks, but yet, there she was, helping Minerva. He approached. “May I be of assistance?”

Minerva looked up sharply. “Where have you been? We have been looking for you.”

He glanced to Irma. She didn’t know, but then, what was the harm now? “I couldn’t bear to face this without seeing Robin,” he murmured. “It didn’t feel right not to warn him to expect bad news.”

Minerva’s face softened. “Oh, Severus,” she sighed. “We must just pray that it will all turn out for the best.”

He nodded jerkily. “Yes,” he agreed shortly. “If you have no other need of me, I shall resume brewing.”

“We will call you if anything happens,” Minerva promised. 

Severus inclined his head. “If you would,” he said. He turned, seeking out a helper. “Draco,” he called to the nearby blonde. “Come. You are to assist me.” 

Draco peeled himself away from the little knot of brighter students working something out: Severus was surprised that Granger had chosen Potter-guard over using her brainpower to greatest effect. “What are we doing?” Draco asked. 

“Healing potions,” Severus said. Draco was probably the best amongst the students at brewing; it made sense. “Let us just hope that minor injuries will be the worst we have to face.” Draco nodded, his expression sombre and his eyes lowered.

They all hoped that there would be few injuries, fervently, but none truly believed it. If they could get through this without deaths, it would be a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote part of this chapter in my lunchbreak at work... I had to stop because I was about to cry writing Severus leaving Robin!  
> It's nice to have Robin back. I missed him.


	81. Hunter or prey?

Two hundred and fifty miles away from Hogwarts, Robin sat upright on his bed. He wasn’t helpless! He wasn’t just a child, needing to be protected! He had skills and abilities, even if they didn’t involve waving a wand. For all his father tried to keep him separate from the wizarding world, guarded from magic and safe from the Dark Lord, this was his fight too. He might not have enough magic to be taught, but that didn’t mean he was useless. Those with magic always underestimated muggles, always seemed to think that they were primitive, more like children or even perhaps animals, than equals. 

Slowly, he climbed off his bed, looked at the clock. A plan was forming, coalescing in his mind. It was shortly after ten… and dawn would probably be around six. Why dawn, he wondered? Why did it always have to be dawn? Firing squads, handbags… why not sunset? Or eleven o’clock in the morning?? Dramatic effect, he supposed, but always seemed silly. Either way, he should have plenty of time. 

Robin didn’t bother paying for a phone line; the payphone across the road did well enough. He didn’t even stop to put on his jacket before dashing across the road, feeding the phone some coins and dialling. “Hey, Carrie,” he said breathlessly as soon as she answered. “I’ve got a favour to ask… I need to borrow your car.”

The tinned voice came back. “Yeah, of course, whatever… when do you need it?”

“Erm, right now,” he replied. “And… one more thing… I might have to leave it in Kendal or Carlisle and bring it back tomorrow- well, hopefully tomorrow…”

There were a few beats of silence on the other end of the line. “What’s going on, Robin?” she asked.

He sighed, loud enough to be audible into the receiver. “It’s a really long story,” he said, hedging. “I kind of have to go and see my dad. And Harriet.”

“And you need my car to do that?” she questioned. The unspoken query was there: what was wrong with floo travel or apparition?

“Like I said, long story,” Robin replied. “Look, can I or not?”

There was a voice in the background, a muffled crackle as Carrie must have covered the reciever with her hand. Robin waited, almost bouncing with nervous energy now. 

“I’m coming over,” she decided eventually. “I’ll bring the car, you can drop me off on the way.”

He let out a huff of relief. “Thanks, Carrie. I owe you.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “You do.” She hung up, and Robin rested his head against the glass of the phone booth. Severus had insisted that he learn to drive, but there was no way Robin made enough to cover his rent and living expenses as well as the cost and upkeep of a car. He didn’t need one for the most part: Manchester was a compact city, and the trams and trains got him where he wanted to go. Edward drove them up to the shoot, and if he couldn’t, it was easy enough to get a lift from Carlisle station. It was too late for all that now, and Carrie was the only one of his friends who had a car that could even begin to understand… never mind that, Carrie was the only one of his friends who could begin to understand, never mind the car. She’d bothered him about magic for a few weeks after finding out that he was a wizard, but he changed the subject every time. He didn’t want her to know- he wasn’t sure his pride could take telling her he was a squib. So he just told her that he didn’t want to live in the wizarding world, and that was that. 

He knew it would probably take Carrie half an hour to get here: she wasn’t the speediest of people, and he did live in an awkward part of town. He forced himself to cross the road at a walk, not a run, and to take the stairs one at a time, letting himself in again. 

He didn’t have time for a shower, but he ran a brush through his hair, trying it back severely. He noticed that his father had done some cleaning, washing his dishes and clearing the layers of dust that had settled. He did feel a little embarrassed to have let the place get to such a state, but he hadn’t much felt like doing the cleaning recently. In truth, he tried to spend as much time out as possible, trying to distract himself from what was or wasn’t happening at Hogwarts. Harriet’s letters every three or four days hadn’t helped as much as he’d hoped they would.

Shaking his head to knock him from his reverie, he stripped off his clothes, flinging them into the full laundry basket. He needed to do that soon as well. 

He chose black to wear rather than the dark greens he would normally dress in to go up on the shoot. He wouldn’t be outdoors amongst greenery, he’d be in the castle, all being well. Hiding out in the forbidden forest was an option, but not one he wanted to take. 

He timed it well: he’d just gathered everything he needed when the bell rang. He trotted downstairs to meet Carrie, his bag slung over one shoulder. “Not so fast,” she said as he stepped out. “Up.”

He blinked in confusion. Carrie was there, but her brother hovered behind her. He gave Robin a tight smile. “I think we need a little chat before this expedition, don’t you?” Oliver asked. 

Robin rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped. “Carrie, the keys?” he held out his hands, but she shook her head.

“Not until you tell us what’s going on, Robin.”

“So the faster you let us in and tell us, the faster you’ll be on your way,” Oliver continued. 

Robin eyed them up. Oliver, at least, would already know half the story… and he couldn’t think of a better way to do this, a way that wouldn’t require Carrie’s help. It was too late for trains. “Fine,” he snapped with poor grace. “I’ll explain, and then I’m going. Not that I see what business it is of yours.” He led the way back up the stairs, unlocking his door and stepping through. 

He gasped as he was suddenly thrown across the room by unseen force. “Ollie!” he head Carrie cry out as he sucking in breath, pinned to the floor. “You promised you’d be gentle!”

“If he’s a Death Eater, he doesn’t deserve gentleness,” Oliver told her darkly, wand out and pointed at Robin. Robin found that he couldn’t move, terror growing in his chest. Oliver approached, shoving up Robin’s left sleeve. He found nothing, of course. He growled in frustration. “Doesn’t mean you’re not a supporter,” he declared. “Why else would you be heading up to see Daddy dearest to secretly when Hogwarts is on lockdown?”

“Let him speak, Ollie!” Carrie pleaded. “He can’t defend himself like this! You promised you’d give him a chance to explain!” She looked truly terrified, sinking to the floor next to Robin. “I don’t think he can be what you think… he wouldn’t do things like that!”

“Just because he pretends to be nice, Carrie…” Oliver replied, gripping Robin’s neck in his hand. He yanked up, pulling Robin into something like a sitting position. The jerking motion, coupled with Robin’s sudden inability to move led to a harsh clack of his teeth, and he caught his cheek between them. The harsh metallic cloy of blood filled his mouth. A trickle left the side of his mouth, his jaw slack again.

“Ollie, you’re hurting him! Stop it! He’s bleeding, and you’re scaring me!”

It seemed to be the last point that made the most difference to Oliver. He pushed his face close to Robin, knowing that the other man was quite able to see and hear, even if she couldn’t move. “I love the magical world, and I love that school, and i’m not going to let your lot destroy it.” He raised his wand, pointing it threateningly at Robin’s face. “ _ Finite _ ,” he muttered. 

Robin, free now to breathe at his own pace instead of the forced even breaths of the  _ petrificus _ gasped in a large breath and immediately choken on the blood pooled in his mouth. He coughed as Carrie ran for a glass of water. She brought back a tea towel, presumably to mop him up, but he snatched it, spitting out a mouthful of ruby blood instead. “You bastard,” he hissed to Oliver. “You utter bastard. I was unarmed, completely defenceless!”

“Just like all the schoolkids you’re going to murder!” Oliver spat back. 

“I’m going to fight  _ against _ the Death Eaters, not for them!” Robin howled. “For Merlin’s sake, I thought we’d sorted this out! If I was going to betray Harriet, I’d have done it by now!” He gulped down a mouthful of the water to try to wash the taste of blood from his mouth, but he suspected he’d bleed for a while. His cheek stung. Carrie tangled her hand in his hair, and he had to resist the urge to bat it away in frustration. He didn’t want Carrie touching him; he wanted Harriet. He told himself that she was only trying to be nice.

Oliver kept his wand trained on Robin, who was still on the floor, though now supporting his own weight. “You can put that stick down,” Robin growled. “In fact, you can both leave. I’ll find another way.”

Carrie settled cross-legged on the floor next to him. “I don’t get what you were trying to do,” she said. “I want to help, Robin… I just want to make sure you’re not doing anything… idiotic.”

“I’m trying to help. I’m trying to help the world that  _ I love too _ !” Robin ground out, glaring at Oliver, still keeping his wand trained and ready. “I’m part of that world, and the woman I love is risking her fucking life. I’m going to help her in any way I can, and if she dies, I die too.”

Carrie frowned. “That’s kind of… extreme. No one’s dying, Robin.”

Robin arched his brows, still keeping a careful eye on Oliver. “They are, Carrie. And don’t think this is just about the wizards. The Dark Lord is all about the subjugation of muggles. If he succeeds… if he can’t be stopped… it won’t be so long until he comes for the muggles. If he can take the Ministry of Magic, how long until he has the muggle Prime Minister in his hands”

“This is silly!” Carrie cried out. “Some nutter isn’t taking over the world! This isn’t bloody  _ Lord of the Rings _ !”

“Keep out of things you don’t understand, Carrie,” Oliver said warily. “Look, Brandon… what was the plan, anyway? Why’d you need the car?”

“My floo’s cut off. I need to get to the public floo. Kendal floo’s only accessible during the day, so probably Carlisle.”

“What’s wrong with Manchester floo? Or apparition, for that matter.”

“There’s something I need to get from near Kendal first,” Robin muttered, spitting into the tea towel again. Instead of deep red, the spittle came out pink this time, though his mouth tasted of metal. “I get it, though. You don’t want to let me go to fight in case I’m on the other side to you… but I don’t see you going to fight either. Happy enough to let others do your dirty work?”

Oliver didn’t rise to the bait. He gave a tight little shrug, careful to keep his wand raised. “They’ve locked down the school,” he explained. “No one goes in. So if you really do want to fight for the light… well, you can’t get in. Rumour has it that Death Eaters are camped out in the forest. There’s no way in.”

Robin gave a smile that might as well have been a grimace. “There are more ways into Hogwarts than the front doors,” he said. “I know of two tunnels from Hogsmeade into the castle,” he said. 

“You didn’t even go to Hogwarts,” Oliver scoffed. “Why would you know more about the school than me? I lived there for seven years.”

“I’ve spent my holidays there since I was a tiny kid. I don’t remember ever spending summers anywhere but Hogwarts until the last couple of years. I’ve been in and out of all the common rooms and dormitories, the kitchens, the classrooms and storerooms and even most of the teacher’s private quarters. Have you ever been in Filch’s  bedroom? No? Didn’t think so.”

“There’s a secret passageway into Filch’s bedroom?” Oliver asked, his curiosity temporarily overruling his mistrust.

“No,” Robin admitted. “That was just an example. Actually, his bedroom’s kitted out with all these cat climbing platforms and scratching posts.” He realised that he was getting too friendly with a wizard pointing his wand at him.  “That’s not the point. Take your fucking wand out of my face and leave.”

“Hey now, I thought we were just getting friendly,” Oliver replied, settling to the floor with his legs crossed and somehow never letting his wand leave Robin. 

“You call it friendly when you have a weapon levelled at a completely defenceless opponent?” Robin snapped back. “You petrified me when my back was turned. For all I know, you could be moments away from  _ Avada _ .”

“Sorry. I’m muggleborn: It’ve got enough to fear from the Death Eaters. I’ve got to keep myself covered, you know? Who knows, you could be the one to kill me.”

“Who’s talking about killing anyone!” Carrie burst out. “Guys, this is ridiculous! You’re making out like this is world war three or something! Stuff like this doesn’t happen anymore! No one’s going to die!”

“Stay out of this one, Carrie-bear,” Oliver said. “You don’t get it. Muggles don’t get it. You-know-who… he’s on the scale of Hitler. Seriously.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Carrie snorted. “That kind of stuff doesn’t happen. People don’t fall for that anymore. They’re just not that stupid.”

“You underestimate the stupidity of the human race,” Robin said tightly. “Seriously, Carrie… I’m sorry to say it, but you can’t understand this. It’s a political battle that’s spanned more than two decades, and issues that someone who doesn’t understand magic just can’t grasp.”

“So explain it!” she demanded.

Oliver was the one to refuse. “We don’t have time, Carrie,” he said. “Okay, Brandon, you’ve got me interested. I’m game to fight- it’s my world too, after all. I’ll call a side, and I’ll be with Dumbledore over You-know-who any day. And I get why you want to fight.So I’ll help, as long as you take me with you.”

Robin breathed a small sigh of relief. He was still a little mistrustful… what if Oliver decided to take him out somewhere away from his sister? But it was his best option. Time was getting on. “One more thing, though…” Oliver continued. “We both need a bit of insurance, you know? So, I reckon a Wizard’s oath should be sufficient.” 

Carrie stood up. “No!” she said. “This is ridiculous! Neither of you are going anywhere you might be killed! If there really is some nutter on the loose, then call the police! Get the army in! Something! It’s not your job.”

Oliver actually smiled at Robin. His wand rested against his knee now, the point still towards Robin. “I like the witches better. They know their places,” he confided. Carrie stamped her foot. “Calm down,” he told her. “You don’t have any choice in this.”

“I’ll tell Mum!” she threatened.

Oliver raised his eyebrow. “Carrie-bear, I’m not ten anymore. I hardly think that the threat of my mother is going to cow me.”

Carrie just looked at him, mouth hanging open. Oliver stood, wand point finally down, and offered a hand to Robin to help him up. Robin ignored it, stumbling to his feet on his own. “So, a vow?” Oliver prodded.

He should have known it would come to this. “I can’t,” he said.

Oliver swung his wand up to him again. “So you admit you have nefarious purposes?” he asked. 

Robin shook his head. “I can’t take an oath because you need a wand to take it.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “I don’t follow. What are you saying? Your wand was snapped, what?”

Robin closed his eyes briefly. “I can’t take an oath for the same reason that I can’t just apparate up to Hogsmeade.” He felt bile rise in his throat: he hated admitting this out loud, and admitting it to an idiot like Oliver Deacon… it made him so vulnerable. “I’m a squib,” he said quietly. “That’s why I didn’t go to Hogwarts. I didn’t have enough magic. That’s why I’m at a muggle university: not because I chose to leave the wizarding world, but because I can’t take part in it.”

He couldn’t look at Oliver or Carrie. He kept his eyes carefully on the thin carpet between his feet. There were a few moments of stunned silence before Carrie quietly asked, “What’s a squib?”

“It’s… it’s kind of like opposite of a muggleborn wizard,” Oliver said quietly. “Someone who should have magic, but… doesn’t.” He paused. “That’s why you’ve not drawn a wand on me this whole time… Christ, I basically attacked a muggle!” Robin glanced up to see Oliver rub at his temples. “Look, why are you trying to join in this battle? You’ll be obliterated in seconds, as soon as you come up against a wizard, or even a witch.”

Robin finally looked up, his eyes hard. “I’m not an idiot,” he said quietly, firmly. “I’m not planning on going anywhere near a witch or wizard. I’ve got other ways of helping.”

Oliver crossed his arms, his wand dangling from his fingers and pointing to the floor now that Robin was no longer a threat. “What ways?” he queried. “You can’t expect me to just accept that you’ve got some harebrained plan.”

“I shoot,” Robin said with a tilt of his chin, as if daring Oliver to challenge him again. “Well, I hunt. I was going to head up and get my gun and hide out in the castle. I figure that if the Death Eaters are camped out around the grounds, there’ll probably be pretty good chances for sniping.” 

“Robin!” Carrie cried. “You’re talking about shooting people-  _ killing _ people!”

“Killing people who’d kill me if they knew who I was!” he snapped back at her. “My Mum was a muggle; they hate muggles. I’ve hidden my whole life, hidden from a world that should be mine too. It’s my right to fight for it!”

“Not to burst your revolutionary bubble,” Oliver cut in, “but will a gun even work at Hogwarts? Muggle technology tends not to, you know.”

“No, electrical things don’t work at Hogwarts. My rifle’s no more electrical than a watch. I’ve used it there before, taken down game in the forest.” He thought it wisest not to mention that there had been a centaur as well as occasional venison.

“What about shields, though?” Oliver asked. “I mean, we’re taught shielding spells in Defence… but I guess you wouldn’t know that…” He’d moved to lean against the edge of Robin’s desk, his gaze focused on the middle distance.”

“I’m well aware of shielding spells, thank you,” Robin said sharply. “My magical theory is actually pretty solid, I just lack the practical aspect. And spells like that are designed to reject magic, not metal. Unless someone was maintaining a shield specifically focused to stopping solid objects, it wouldn’t do any good, and who’s willing to protect against their opponent flinging stones when they’re more likely to cast a cutting curse anyway?”

Oliver considered this for a moment. “Okay, you may have a point. But what’s to say you can actually hit anything?”

“I can hit what I’m aiming for,” Robin assured him.

“Hang on, guys,” Carrie interjected. “I cannot believe I am hearing this! No, you are not going to kill people, Robin! That’s not you!”

“It’s me if it needs to be,” Robin said assuredly. “It’s me if those people are threatening Harriet.”

Carrie’s eyes were wide in shock. “That’s barbaric!” she insisted. 

“That’s the wizarding world,” Oliver said. “Okay, so you can’t take a wizard’s oath… but even a muggle can make an unbreakable vow, if the bonding’s performed by a witch or wizard. GIve your word to Carrie that you’re not going to help the Death Eaters, and I’ll do better than the car. I’ll apparate you there myself if you can get me into the castle.”

“I’m not having anything to do with this!” Carrie snapped. “Whatever this unbreakable vow is, I’m not doing it, and that’s final. I’m not having anything to do with either of you playing soldiers. Robin you spend your time studying Homer, for goodness sake, and Oliver, you just seem to push paper around all day! Neither of you can fight.”

Oliver cupped Carrie’s chin is his hand, or, rather, tried to, but she pulled away. “Carrie, you don’t understand,” he said gently. “You can’t. It’s a completely different world, and we’re trained to defend ourselves at school. Well I was trained to defend myself… Brandon here just seems to have taken up a rather violent hobby.”

“I’m not hanging around to see this!” Carrie snapped. “I’m leaving… and don’t think i’m just going to go away and keep quiet, either! I’ll tell the police!”

She had her hand on the door handle when Oliver very quietly murmured “ _ obliviate. _ ”

Carrie turned. “I…” she said vaguely. “I… erm, are you coming, Ollie?” she asked.

Oliver smiled. This time, she let him touch her, pull her into a brotherly hug. “You really don’t look so good, Carrie-bear,” he said. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll find my own way home. You just go and get some sleep, okay?”

She nodded woodenly. 

“What did you do?” Robin hissed when Carrie had gone. “Memory charms can cause serious brain damage!”

“Don’t panic. Just trust me,” Oliver said, slipping his wand up his sleeve. “I’m an obliviator for the Ministry, my charms are fine. She’ll be fine, she just won’t remember anything since you called her. As far as she’s concerned, she and I just stopped in for a visit and she started feeling unwell.”

“How do I know you’re not just going to obliviate me?” Robin demanded. “How do i know you haven’t already?”

Oliver looked at him appraisingly. “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to trust me. Like I suppose I’ll just have to trust you, since Carrie’s so difficult. If you’re still up for it, that is? Chickened out?”

“No!” Robin declared, annoyed that Oliver could even consider it. “‘Course not.”

“So,” Oliver asked, “Where are we going?”  
Robin looked at him as if he were stupid. “Did you cast a memory charm on yourself?” he asked. “Hogwarts… well, Hogsmeade.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but don’t we have to head somewhere else to pick up your crap first? Apparating to somewhere you don’t know is bloody hard, you know. Have you got a map or something that shows the place?”

Robin did, as it happened, have a map, and was able to point out where he needed to go. “There shouldn’t be anyone there,” he said. “In fact, apparating’s going to be a heck of a lot easier than driving up- you should be able to get right into the gun storeroom. It’s a muggle place, so no wards.”

“Describe it,” Oliver demanded. “It’s easier if I know what to expect.”

Robin went into as much detail as he could: the layout of the gun store, the sights and smells and even the silence in the middle of the night. Eventually, Oliver held up his hand. “That’s enough,” he said. “Though if I apparate into a wall, I’m blaming you for not doing well enough. You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Robin replied. “We’ll have to go outside though- there are anti-apparition wards in here.”

“For a bloody squib, you’re well protected,” Oliver groused, opening the door.

Oliver managed to avoid any walls or other obstacles, landing them lightly into the middle of the gun hut. The darkness pressed in on them like the squeeze of apparition. “I don’t like this place,” Oliver hissed, his voice low. “Get your stuff so we can go.”

“A little light?” Robin suggested dryly, and Oliver dimly lit his wand. An insult about Robin’s inability to do the simplest tasks died on his lips: he didn’t want to make any more noise than necessary. He felt like a third year out of bed. 

The wand light reflected off a row of dull black lockers, tall and narrow. Robin crouched to the floor, taking a ring of keys from his backpack, the muffled jingle loud in the spartan room. Oliver looked around at the walls: one taken up by the lockers, another with a bench and an empty row of coat hooks above it, a third with floor to ceiling cupboards. His head snapped around as Robin unlocked the third locker door from the left. He studied the other boy in the wandlight. He could see Snape in his profile: not so angular, but with a similar set of the jaw, the same arched cheekbones cheekbones. It was his eyes, though, that creeped Oliver; as if he was back in Potions lessons all over again.

Robin ran his fingers lovingly across the polished walnut and smooth, cool metal of his rifle. It had been a gift from his father on his seventeenth birthday- second hand, but very well looked after. He pulled its case from the shelving to his left, carefully placing it into the lined cavity. “You touch that thing like it’s a lover,” Oliver hissed, getting impatient. “Get on with it.”

“Just a minute,” Robin replied, pitching his voice low. He didn’t want to alert the gamekeeper of their presence any more than Oliver did. “It’s of no use without ammunition.”

The magazines were kept in another locked cabinet away from the guns. He took the ammo for the larger game: it would be harder to take down a human with a bullet meant for ducks. He shouldn’t need much, and he didn’t want to raise suspicions, so he only took two magazines. If he had to kill more than thirty people… well. He knew that there weren’t so very many Death Eaters, and he was going to be sniping, not spraying shot. “Okay,” he said, carefully relocking both safes and shouldering his gun case, “I’m ready.”

“Where to in Hogsmeade?” Oliver asked roughly. 

“Somewhere near the shrieking shack,” Robin said. “There’s a passage in there that comes out under the whomping willow- I think that one should be the easiest to get to.”

Oliver didn’t respond: he just wrapped an arm around Robin’s shoulders and shut his eyes, concentrating on Hogsmeade.

Robin grunted lightly as they reappeared. “Why is all wizarding transportation so uncomfortable?” he hissed, opening his eyes to peer down onto Hogsmeade. There were still lights on: unusual, since it was now past midnight. 

Oliver caught his wrist. “There’s a light on at the shack,” he whispered. “Look.” It was faint, but it was there. “The ghosts, maybe?” Oliver suggested.

“There are no ghosts,” Robin replied, his voice low. He looked up to the sky. “What’s the moon in?”

“The moon?” Oliver asked stupidly.

“Yeah. Big round lump of rock orbiting earth,” Robin hissed back. He was grateful for the apparition, but he didn’t much like having Oliver trailing him around. It made him feel nervous. The sky was clouded, the moon not visible. “Is it the full moon? Because I know of at least one werewolf who hides out in the shack on full moons.”

“Full moon’s in about two or three days, I think,” Oliver replied. “We always have more crazies and magic sightings at work on full moons. What do we do? Where’s the other tunnel you know about?”

“Honeydukes basement,” Robin replied distractedly. “Comes out in the castle itself.” Harriet had finally told him how she’d got past the anti-apparition wards on the school. “Look, let’s head down the hill. We’ll have a sniff round the shack, see if it’s just something to scare the locals. If there’s someone there, we’ll try Honeydukes, okay?”

“Okay,” Oliver agreed. Robin jumped as the point of Oliver’s wand lightly touched his head, but it was immediately followed by a cool feeling washing over his body, as if water had poured over him. 

“What was that?”

“Disillusionment,” Oliver muttered, repeating the spell on himself and fading into the background, an odd shimmer the only evidence that a person stood there. “Try to stay quiet: they’re better if you don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Robin nodded before he realised that Oliver wouldn’t be able to see him either. It was an odd thought indeed. He wondered if it was like this under Harriet’s invisibility cloak. Sometimes, even he had to wonder at the magical world hidden around the muggle one: this was the stuff of storybooks and fairy tales, not everyday life. Carefully, he hefted his backpack and gun case and followed Oliver down the slope towards the shack. 

Oliver’s steps slowed as they approached the ramshackle building, the bending of the grass stalks in the darkness becoming slower. Robin rushed against him as he drew level, the odd feeling of warm flesh where his mind told him there should just be air making the hair on his arms stand on end. “Look,” Oliver breathed, his whisper barely there. 

A doorway had been cut into the shack, and by it stood a black-cloaked figure. After a few seconds, the figure turned its head, and the little light there was caught the silvery mask covering the face. 

“Shit,” Robin breathed. “Death Eater.”

“Where there’s one, there’s bound to be more,” Oliver replied just as quietly. “D’you think they’ve found the tunnel?”

“Dunno,” Robin said softly.

“All the more reason to get into the school and warn them then,” Oliver replied. “Come on. Honeydukes it is.”

Two shimmers in the air crept past the shack, unnoticed by the guard in the darkness. This was a place that Oliver knew better than Robin: he grasped in the air beside him for the other man’s wrist, pulling him down a side street. “This way’s better,” he murmured. “More shadows.”

They caught sight of another Death Eater on the corner to the main street: Oliver had been right to avoid it. He cursed under his breath anyway. He pulled Robin down yet another side street, edging closer to Honeydukes every time. He hoped that there was a back way into the shop: there must be somewhere that they took deliveries. 

He’d let go of Robin, trusting him to watch and follow the distortion in the air. Suddenly, though, a sharp intake of breath behind him, a guttural gasp from Robin. Oliver turned, but not fast enough. A hand clamped onto his shoulder and pulled him backwards into a doorway.  

  
  
  



	82. Infiltration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... sorry about that cliffhanger! Here, have some story to make up for it!

“You okay?” Hermione asked, lowering herself to the edge of the dias to join Harriet. 

“I suppose,” Harriet said softly. “I can’t believe it’s really come to this, you know? Actually come down to some kind of siege, and all about me. What if it goes wrong, Hermione? What if people die? Sirius has already died for me… I don’t want anyone else to.”

“They’re not doing it for you, Harriet,” Hermione explained gently. “We’re doing it because You-know-who threatens everything. Have you even thought of what he would do to me? I’m muggleborn, and being your friend doesn’t help. We know from experience that he’d probably…” she stopped, gulped, “use me for sexual favours, and not care if I was injured so badly that I died.”

“Yeah,” Harriet agreed grumpily. “But what about the others? I mean, yeah, Moody and Tonks are aurors- they’re meant to be fighting him. But what about the Weasleys? They’re all pure bloods.”

“Blood traitors,” Hermione pointed out quickly. “Harriet, everyone here has a reason to fear life under You-know-who’s rule. You give them hope, though- you give them a reason to fight.”

Harriet put her head down onto her arms, crossed on her upraised knees. “I wish Voldemort had never existed,” she muttered. 

“All of us share that wish.”

Harriet looked up in surprise at hearing Severus’ languorous voice. “You should get some sleep,” he continued. “Both of you. I fear that we will need our strength in a few hours.”

“What’s going on out there, Professor?” Hermione asked quietly. 

“The Death Eaters are in Hogsmeade,” Severus replied. “We received a patronus from Aberforth Dumbledore informing us that they have taken up residence in the Three Broomsticks. A group is at the Shrieking shack.”

A knot tightened in Harriet’s stomach. “The passageway… to the whomping willow…” she murmured. “Could they...?”

“It’s been blocked,” Severus assured her. “All the tunnels and passages have.” He looked down at them sternly. “Get some rest.” He left them, instead crossing to see Imogen and Ron, curled on the transfigured bed in the corner. He had only a few minutes before he needed to return to the dungeons and his potions.

Harriet leaned back on her hands. “I can’t believe the Marauder’s map wasn’t actually made by the Marauders, that they just copied it from the school map. I thought we knew all this stuff that the teachers didn’t, and all along, they had their own. I felt so… special, having it, like it was some kind of great link to my Dad, you know?”

Hermione made a face. “It always did seem a pretty big thing for schoolkids to make,” she said. “I mean, Severus says that the school map was created by the founders. It really is far more believable that Sirius and your Dad snuck into the Headmaster’s office under the cloak and took a copy, isn’t it? And then Lupin enchanted it to disguise itself as a blank parchment.”

Harriet nodded morosely. She’d always thought of her Dad as a brilliant mind, but when Lupin had explained how the Marauder’s map was made, just a few hours ago when they were looking at the original version, it just didn’t seem so amazing. It turned out that James wouldn’t have known where to begin in making such an artifact. It had been Lily, Lupin had explained, who was the clever one of the pair: James was the brawn and she the brains. It hadn’t saved them in the end. Harriet idly wondered what she was. She had neither brawn nor particular brains. 

There was something niggling at the back of her mind, though. She may not be strong: she was fast, honed from years of seeking, but she lacked muscle. She wasn’t stupid, but she wasn’t as bright as Hermione, or Draco: she lacked the perseverance required, and her poor early education often let her down. But she did have some skills. Strategy came naturally to her, and she knew there was something she was missing. Some crucial part of this production. “There’s something I’m missing,” she groused. “Something that’s not done.”

“There’s nothing to do,” Hermione said softly. “We wait. That’s all we can do right now. Not until McGonagall and Flitwick figure out which wards can be strengthened, anyway.”

“Yeah. S’pose you’re right,” Harriet said morosely, addressing the floor.

Hermione poked her gently in the side. “Come on,” she said. “I doubt we’ll sleep, but we might as well lie down.” She towed Harriet to the side of the hall, where squishy sleeping bags familiar from their third year were laid out along the wall. Harriet snuggled down into one. Hermione was right; sleep was unlikely, but at least she could be comfortable and warm. This might be the last time she was comfortable for a long time: in hours she could be dead or kept as Voldemort’s plaything and broodmare.

She wished she’d had a chance to say goodbye to Robin, just in case. She’d fight her best, of course, but there were no guarantees. She shut her eyes and wished herself back in Robin’s room in the dungeons, tucked into bed beside him.

 

****

“Be quiet!” a rough voice hissed in Robin’s ear. “Who knows who’s listening?”

Robin squirmed, finally coming face-to-face with an old, rather grubby man, his face largely hidden by lank strings of hair. “Let me go,” he snarled. 

The grubby old man scowled. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, roughly shoving Robin forward into the room. “No need to act grateful at all.”

“Who are you?” Oliver demanded, rubbing his arm where he’d been grabbed. 

The old man stomped off towards a table. They were in a pub, Robin realised, reason finally working through the fog of terror. A deserted, shadowy pub, the only light coming from the fire and a single candle on the bar. “Name’s Aberforth,” he muttered, sitting before a half-drunk pint. “And who might you be, the pair o’ you?”

“None of your business. And if you don’t mind, we’ll be going now,” Oliver informed him archly. He turned towards the door.

“Wouldn’t do tha’ if I were you,” Aberforth said levelly, staring into his pint. 

“And why not?” Oliver asked acidically. Robin decided it was best to let him do the talking- he seemed quite happy with the role.

“Well,” Aberforth replied, looking up and fixing them with a beady gaze that caught the dance of the flames, “the village is crawling with Death Eaters. And you two don’t look much like Death Eaters to me.” He stared back down into his pint, swirling it gently and watching the foam rise on the sides. “I figured that mayhap you needed a bit of help.”

“How did you even see us?” Oliver demanded. 

Aberforth grinned. “Disillusionment don’t fool me, boy,” he said. “I’ve a lot of years behind me, and I see things the way they are.” He pointed one grubby finger at Robin. “You’re Snape’s brat,” he said darkly. “Gotta be. What with those eyes, and that chin. You’re about the right age, and there’s no wand on you, or you’d have it out by now.”

Cold fear bloomed around Robin’s heart, freezing his breath. “Don’t look so frightened, boy, I’ve known your father’s associations almost as long as you’ve been alive.” That wasn’t comforting to Robin: which association did he mean? To the Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix?

“We should go,” he muttered, whether to Aberforth or Oliver he wasn’t sure. “We’ve… got places to be.”

“You’re tryn’a get up to the school, aren’t you?” Aberforth said before they could go. “Tryn’a get in on the action, two young bucks like yourselves. Slice of the glory? Well, between you an’ me lads, might not be much glory going. Fighting’s a messy, bloody business. Learnt that when I was your age. Learn from my mistakes. Live another day.”

“I don’t understand,” Oliver finally cut in. “Who are you, anyway?”

Aberforth grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Oh, you don’t look like the type to frequent the Hog’s Head,” he said. “Far too clean cut, young man.” He gestured to Robin with a flick of his thumb. “His dad’s more my type of customer. Someone with summat to hide, if you follow.”

“Who are you?” Oliver repeated, enunciating each word carefully. He brought his wand up into a casting position.

Aberforth moved faster than should have been normal for a man who looked over a hundred. It was only Oliver’s quick snatch of his wand hand to behind his back that stopped Aberforth plucking the wand from him. “Don’t you point that wand at me, laddy,” he snipped. “Don’t you have any manners? I’ve not hurt you, and nor do I intend to, not like whatever’s out there.” He brushed a bundle of hair from his face. “Would it jog yer memory if I were to say that my full name’s Aberforth Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore?” Oliver echoed disbelievingly.

“You’d have known my brother Albus, I should think,” Aberforth informed him.

“I didn’t know he had a brother,” Oliver riposted.

“Not many do,” Aberforth replied sadly. “Nevertheless, here I am.”

Robin was getting more and more nervy. “We need to go,” he said. “It was… nice to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore, but we have places to be.”

Aberforth raised an eyebrow, then crossed back to his drink. “You don’t wanna go out there,” he reiterated. “Those Death Eater’s’ll sooner kill you than look at you, ‘specially given who your father is. And how were you planning on getting into the school anyway?”

“I know ways,” Robin said stiffly. 

Aberforth regarded him, blue eyes seeming to burn a hole through Robin’s skin. “Sit down lads, and tell me why it is that you really want to get up there.”

“We don’t have time for this, old man!” Oliver snapped, but Robin thought that there was more to Aberforth than general curiosity. Carefully, he stepped forward, pulling out the chair opposite the old man with a squeak on the floorboards beneath the sawdust. He sat, cradling his rifle case against the crook of his arm.

“What’cha got there?” Aberforth asked with a jab of his chin towards the case.

“It’s a hunting rifle,” Robin replied quietly. His instinct was to trust this man, though he wasn’t sure why… he could be giving away his secrets to a Death Eater, for all he knew. After all, how would Aberforth know about his dad’s role as a spy, and his defection from the Dark Lord? Only if Severus or Dumbledore had told him… or if he was a Death Eater. But perhaps he just needed to trust, like he’d just had to trust Oliver, who stood stiffly by the door, his knuckles tight around his downturned wand. “You’re right, I’m a squib… but I’m not as helpless as everyone seems to expect. Maybe I can add something else to this battle, something the Death Eaters aren’t expecting. If there’s any fighting outside, then I can snipe off Death Eaters. Who knows, maybe I could turn the tide.”

Aberforth looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could,” he mused, the flicker of the candlelight catching his eyes and sending glittering sparks across them. “Stranger things have happened. I’m partial to squibs: wizarding folk don’t give ‘em enough credit. Yer not a child. They look down on muggles like children too.”

Oliver sighed dramatically before Aberforth had even finished. “Muggles and squibs and children, you’ll be on about women next. We don’t have time for this!” He flung open the door, pausing only long enough to disillusion himself again, and was gone, the door swinging to behind him.

“I should…” Robin suggested, not really needing to finish his sentence.

Aberforth shook his grubby head. “Nah. If your tryn’a get up to the castle, you won’t manage that way. Let me guess, you were gonna use one of the tunnels? They’ve all been blocked up, lad. One of the ways they defend the castle. Can’t risk his lot gettin’ in now. They’re blocked with magic and cave-ins.”

“What about ones the teachers don’t know about?” Robin queried, feeling a little sick. To have got this far… revealed everything to Oliver, allowed Carrie to be obliviated, and then to fail at the final hurdle…

“There aren’t any that the teachers don’t know about,” Aberforth admitted with a kindly smile, and for a moment, Robin saw a flash of grandfatherly Albus in the old man. “They just pretend not to know, let the kids spread their wings a bit. Albus was all for letting them spread their wings.”

Robin sighed deeply, hanging his head. “Fuck,” he declared vehemently.

“Why’d you want to get up there so badly, lad?” Aberforth asked. “Like I said… fighting’s messy, and people get hurt. People get caught in the crossfire that weren’t never meant to be there.”

“It’s my family out there,” Robin muttered, defeated. “It’s my Dad- the only family I have, and Harriet… she’s the only person I’ve ever loved, other than my parents. I have to do whatever I can to help, otherwise, if they lose, how will I ever forgive myself?”

He didn’t look up when Aberforth stood, though he heard the shuffling steps meander to the bar. Perhaps Aberforth was fetching him a drink, he thought. He needed one. He did look up when the old man started to croon. “There, dear,” he murmured, quietly, so quietly, his voice low and soft. “It’s all fine.” Was he really talking to a portrait? Robin wondered how mad he really was. Perhaps, if he were mad, he was wrong about the tunnels? Maybe the one under Honeydukes really was open? 

Robin goggled as the portrait swung open. “What?” he choked out.

Aberforth turned around again, looking mildly pleased with himself. “The only tunnel still open to Hogwarts,” he stated proudly. “It’s not on that map that Albus was so proud of. It can only be opened from this side by Ariana, only when she wants to, and only be opened at real need from the other.”

“Ariana?” Robin asked timidly.

“My sister,” Aberforth stated sadly. “The portrait is my Ariana. She died too young. I hope you will not. Be careful, lad. You might have a chance.”

“What about Oliver?” Robin wanted to know. “Shouldn’t we try to find him?”

Aberforth shrugged. “He’s not back yet, so I reckon he apparated straight home the minute he knew you weren’t following,” the old man suggested sagely. “He didn’t have much of the air of a revolutionary about him if you ask me.”

“Perhaps not,” Robin agreed with a small smile. “If he comes back, will you at least tell him what’s happened? I don’t want him worrying about me.”

“Aye,” Aberforth agreed. “Here, you’ll need a light.” He pulled a dusty lamp from behind the bar and dug in his torn and stained robes until he fished out a surprisingly sturdy wand. “ _ Incendio _ ,” he said assertively, pointing at the lantern, and watched the wick of the lamp catch. He held it out to Robin who took it hesitantly. He glanced into the admittedly dark mouth of the tunnel. Did it really lead to Hogwarts? He had a sudden rush of uncertainty. He didn’t know Aberforth, had never heard of him before tonight. How did he know that the old man could be trusted? But his gut told him that it was alright, that he wasn’t being delivered to Death Eaters. 

“Thanks,” Robin muttered, setting the lantern in the tunnel hole and carefully laying his gun case in beside it.

“Try to stay alive, lad,” Aberforth instructed.

Robin nodded and scrambled up into the hole behind the portrait, ready to begin the trudge to Hogwarts. 

He didn’t know how long to expect it to be. The light from his lantern reflected dimly off unlit brass lamps and smooth stone. There were no landmarks, nothing, just stone walls leading into darkness. He looked behind him. He didn’t know if Aberforth had closed the portrait or if it was just distance, but there was utter darkness behind as well as in front. Merlin, but he felt alone! Grudgingly, he forced his feet forward, and, quietly, began to sing to himself, the first thing to come into his head. “In the shuffling madness of the locomotive breath, runs the all-time loser, headlong to his death.” He shook his head. That was hardly a good omen. Perhaps Jethro Tull wasn’t the best choice. Time to try something different. He began to hum, then, again, to sing. “By the fall of the snow a single soul will go. The footsteps on the white, there's an unholy light.” Hmm. Better, a bit. It was dark, not white, but it was perhaps a little less defeatist.

His voice echoed oddly off the stone, making it sound as if he were surrounded by himself. He hoped no one was listening. “There's a hole in the sky, something evil's passing by. What's to come - when the siren calls you go.” He couldn’t help a little smile- Harriet, his singular siren. He wasn’t lashing himself to the mast, he was going- and, who knew, maybe he was going to his death. Better that than a life without Harriet. He felt sick just thinking about a world with no Harriet. 

He began to find it harder to catch his breath as the tunnel rose sharply, steeply upwards, and the pauses between words and stanzas grew. After a while, he fell silent and listened instead to the soft thumps of each of his footfalls, and wondered how long he’d been going. It felt like forever and yet no time at all, and he realised he’d been running on nothing but adrenaline for hours now. The darkness pressed in, leaving his eardrums feeling heavy, compressed, and his own heartbeat sounding as if it echoed off the stone. 

He was so lost in the trudge of his own feet, the thump of his own heartbeat, that he almost ran into the wooden door at the end of the tunnel. The lantern light reflected dully off a tarnished handle and hinges. Pressing his ear carefully to the wood, he listened. He really should have asked Aberforth where the tunnel came out: the last thing he wanted to do was stumble into the great hall. Then again, he rationalised, it was almost three in the morning now: everyone should be asleep. Well, unless they were preparing for attack…

Either way, he could hear nothing. He grasped the ring of the door handle and slowly, very slowly, turned it. He inched the door open, just enough to peer out.

The room beyond was in darkness. Pausing again to listen, but hearing nothing, he pushed the door open just enough to permit his slender form to pass into the chamber beyond.

He held up his lamp, looking into the corners. There was no-one here, and the room wasn’t overly large. He was alone in the windowless chamber.

Carefully, he set the lantern on the table in the middle of the room. Had he still been holding it five seconds later, he’d have had flaming oil all over him, for he leapt almost a foot backwards when a loud pop sounded in front of him. Gasping, he held his gun case in both hands before him as if it were some kind of shield. 

An unfamiliar house elf blinked up at him. It set the tray it carried on the table, bowed, and popped back out of existence as rapidly as if arrived, though it did nothing for Robin’s heart rate. “What the fuck?” he breathed as he gingerly tested his limbs to make sure he actually could move through the fear. Shakily, he set his rifle onto the table and let his backpack drop to the floor with a muffled thump. There was a stool by the table, he dropped to it, one hand over his pounding heart. “Bloody elves,” he muttered, pulling the tray towards him to see what the elf had brought. A sandwich sat on a plate, accompanied by a glass of orange juice and a small cake.

How had the elf known he was here? He’d only just arrived? Who’d sent her, anyway? He eyed the sandwich with slight misgivings until he realised that his sense of doom was probably just in overdrive. How many meals had he accepted from Hogwarts house elves? It would number in the thousands. They’d never tried to poison him before, and he supposed that even if the Dark Lord had taken over the castle, his first instructions wouldn’t be ‘send a poisoned sandwich to anyone who happens to sneak in’. On balance, it was a safe bet. Robin took a bite, realising how hungry he actually was. 

When he’d finished the food and drained the glass of orange juice he stood and shrugged his bag back onto his back before picking up his gun and the lantern. He wondered how much oil was in it? He had no way of relighting it, but the Hogwarts corridors were rarely completely dark. He just had to figure out where he was first. He turned to the other door in the room, repeating the same procedure as earlier: listening and opening slowly. 

He took stock when he’d slipped out. It took a moment to place where he was: it was high in the castle: on the seventh floor. The tapestry was familiar- when he’d trailed Filch around as a kid, it had been grumpily pointed out as Barnabas the Barmy. 

He’d already put a good bit of thought into where best to camp himself. He would be of most use if there was fighting taking place outside and he could snipe from within the castle, unseen. Rifles were not meant to be used at close range. If the fighting was inside, he would have to find a hiding spot at the end of a long corridor and hope for the best. 

He’d considered the towers, but they were too tall. If there was a battle on the ground, he would be too far away for a good aim, and would be just as likely to hit a friend as a foe. Somewhere around the first or second floor would be best. There was an abandoned classroom on the first floor, on a corner of the castle, with a view out towards the front lawns and the lake. Even better, he remembered it as having narrow, inward-opening windows, perfect for his purposes. Carefully, slowly, always listening and taking narrow back routes where he could, he began making his way down five storeys.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I didn't write Robin's little sing-along stuff. The first is 'Locomotive Breath' by Jethro Tull and the second is Rainbow's 'Run with the wolf'  
> I had imagined Robin having heavier taste, I must admit, but my own knowledge of heavier rock and metal isn't brilliant, so... he's ended up with Tull. Just imagine that he couldn't think of any singable Maiden or Metallica at that particular moment.


	83. Visiting an old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This is getting very difficult to write! I'm really struggling to figure out what's going on in the story at the moment, so I apologise if I end up being late on an upload or two! I'm usually working six or seven chapters ahead of what I'm posting, but right now, I'm still writing chapter 85! It's a bit close to the bone for me!
> 
> Anyway, I promise the story's not going anywhere, it just might slow down a little unless I get some time and a muse. 
> 
> That said- here's another chapter. I hope you enjoy!

A faint finger of pink light showed at the edge of the ceiling of the great hall. Harriet watched it with trepidation, but no one else seemed to have even noticed. There was something bubbling in the pit of Harriet’s stomach: she stood decisively from the bench. Nobody noticed. The whole place was a hive of activity, and yet, no one would accept her help. Severus was directing a little group of trusted seventh years in fetching his supplies of healing potions from the dungeons, and yet more, including Ron, were fetching all manner of things from the hospital wing. Most of the teachers were gone, off pouring every last bit of magical strength possible into the wards and defences of the castle. Hermione and Imogen were amongst the students with them. Only Draco’s appointed position as Severus’ chief assistant had excused him from this duty: Severus had petulantly insisted that he could trust no other student to oversee the removing of supplies from his storerooms.

She crossed the room to stand by Severus. “Can I help?” she asked. 

“You should rest,” he replied shortly. It was the only answer she’d had all night. Rest. Gather your strength. Never mind that she hadn’t slept a wink, any more than anyone but Imogen had. Harriet supposed growing three bodies must make you more tired. Severus had been handing out pepper-up like it was pumpkin juice in any case. 

Dejected, Harriet stared up at the ceiling. “What counts as dawn?” she asked.

“Not on top of that one, Macmillan, it’ll fall!” Severus snapped. He spared a glance for the ceiling. “It’s about now,” he told Harriet. 

“What happens now?” Harriet asked fearfully. “Shouldn’t something be happening? He said dawn, he said that if he didn’t have me by dawn…”

“Maybe he was just bluffing,” Hermione suggested in what was supposed to be a helpful tone. Harriet hadn’t even noticed her return, so engrossed had she been with the light creeping across the enchanted sky. 

“The Dark Lord does not ‘bluff’, Miss Granger,” Severus growled. 

Hermione’s face fell, though Severus hadn’t even looked at her. She ducked her head and scuttled away to a bench. Severus had moved forward to catch a tumbling crate of bottles that Ernie Macmillan had insisted on leaving somewhere even Harriet could see wasn’t very stable. She left him to it and followed Hermione instead.

“Are you, erm, okay?” Harriet asked. It seemed a stupid question: none of them were really okay, after all. They were all waiting for some kind of death blow. 

Hermione shrugged. “He’s got more important things in his life than me,” she said, trying to sound like she didn’t care. She failed. “I kind of knew it couldn’t last forever, you know?” she whispered. “That he’d get bored of me. But it still hurts when he just pushes me away, you know? I didn’t really know how much I’d come to rely on him, and I keep doing stupid things just to spite him.” Hermione, being Hermione, had spent hours upon hours painstakingly analysing her feelings, Severus’ actions. She could have written essays on the topic. 

Harriet didn’t have all her attention on Hermione, but she was listening enough to realise that something wasn’t right. The Severus who’d held Hermione asleep in his lap not even a month ago was now bored of her? That didn’t sound right… and it didn’t sound like Severus. “So he’s said that he doesn’t want to be with you anymore?” Harriet asked. It didn’t seem quite the right description, ‘be with’, but she couldn’t think of anything better. Surely she couldn’t call Severus Hermione’s boyfriend- the term was infantile, not at all Severus. She didn’t really know what Hermione regarded him as- she’d never asked. Perhaps her master, her dominant?

Hermione looked away, a little uncomfortable. “Well, no,” she admitted quietly. “He’s just so short with me. He never checks to see if I’m doing the things I should be doing anymore…”

Harriet knew better than to ask what kind of things Hermione meant- they were probably things she didn’t want to know had ever even entered Severus’ mind. But perhaps the idea of impending death was loosening Hermione’s tongue. She just carried on with blithe indifference, if not in blithe spirit. “I haven’t used the hair removal potion in a week… he didn’t even say anything. He just… fucks. He’s so distant. He doesn’t talk to me anymore.” 

“Er, Hermione…” Harriet began, not really sure how to deal with this, how to say it or even what to say, but it felt like it needed some response. “Maybe…”

She was interrupted by McGonagall, hurrying into the room, her robes held kilted up so she could move quickly. “He’s at the gates,” she called out breathlessly. 

Harriet was on her feet, Hermione just a beat behind her. “Let’s go, then!” Harriet cried. She heard a gasp from behind her: Neville, who’d been engrossed in tying bundles of seeds together.

“Go where, Potter?” Severus asked with his typical sardonic tone, a twitch, then an arch of his eyebrow. “This is a siege, not on outing.” He turned back to Minerva. 

“But…” Harriet began.

She was interrupted again by Minerva. “He’s testing the wards. You can see it even from the Astronomy tower, see the spells bouncing. The apparition wards are straining too… they’re trying to get in.”

Harriet bounced on the balls of her feet. She wanted to  _ do _ something! She’d never played this waiting game before, she wanted to go, to move, to be useful. Hermione laid a calming hand on her shoulder, both girls watching as Severus and Minerva bent their heads close together, muttering. Flitwick joined them, and both sat in a single motion, bringing them level with the diminutive Charms professor. “I don’t get it,” Harriet muttered. “What is there left to plan? We just need to go out and kill him!”

“What about the snake?” Neville asked quietly. Harriet groaned and cupped her head in a hand. She’d forgotten about Nagini. How could she have forgotten the horcrux? She strode over to the little huddle of teachers.

“Excuse me,” she said.

McGonagall glared at her. “What, Potter?”

“The snake,” Harriet said, then, nervous, tumbling her words over each other: “I mean, what are we going to do about the snake? It has to die first.”

“We are aware of that fact, thank you, Potter,” McGonagall replied dryly. “Fetch Longbottom, would you? If you’re to be part of this conversation, he may as well be too.”

Harriet turned to beckon to Neville, and Hermione came along too. “Miss Granger,” McGonagall sighed.

Severus cut across her. “Let her stay,” he said sharply, without even glancing at Hermione. “She needs to know the stakes. In fact, everyone needs to know the stakes.”

“Not everyone is here,” Minerva reminded him.

“It doesn’t matter. Tell those who are here,” Severus replied. “Word will spread, and better to say it twice than not at all. They need to know what to do with Nagini should they capture her.”

Harriet gasped. “That’s what it is!” she cried out. “I knew there was something I was forgetting! I thought of it days ago, when I was going to sleep, then just never got round to it!”

“Your potions homework?” Severus queried with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Now is hardly the time.”

She glared at him. She couldn’t keep up the mask of being scared of him, not now, not amongst all this. “No. I thought of something else. It seems silly- there are lots of us, and only one sword of Gryffindor. What if someone who doesn’t have the sword with them finds the snake?”

“That was why we have made plans to keep the sword somewhere central and bring the snake to it, Miss Potter,” McGonagall said wearily. “It is one of the things I am about to announce.”

“No, but wait,” Harriet replied excitedly. “What if there was more things that could destroy the horcrux?” All three teachers looked at her, though only Flitwick looked expectant- both Minerva and Severus seemed simply to be waiting for her to get on with it so they could return to more important matters. She took a deep breath and continued. “Well, the sword works because of the basilisk venom in it, right? Well, the basilisk was never moved, right? It’s still down there. And I destroyed Riddle’s diary with one of its fangs, and they’re probably still down there. Why not fetch them, or stick some knives and stuff into the body to collect the venom?”

Severus’ expression had changed through Harriet’s explanation to one of contemplation. “Unless you have a stock of Goblin-made weaponry, you will not be able to imbue another blade with the venom,” he said slowly. “The poison would dissolve it. The fangs, though… the chamber has been sealed, and the venom is hardy, long lasting. It may well work, and having multiple options is always a good thing.”

“You’re sure you can still open the chamber, Potter?” McGonagall asked.

Harriet shrugged. “Don’t see why not. And no harm trying.”

McGonagall nodded. “Go and gather what you can, then,” she said. “And be as quick as you can. The wards are holding, but who knows what He-who-must-not-be-named has to throw at us. 

“Yes, Professor,” she said, her eyes lit at finally, finally, having a task, something real to do. She turned. “Hey, Ron!” she called across the hall. Ron looked up. “C’mon, I need someone to help carry!”

“Carry what?” Ron called back, but he was already on his feet. Like Harriet, he’d had few ‘jobs’ to do, and had spent the last hour ferrying bandages and tourniquets. He suspected that whatever Harriet was going to do would be more interesting. Hermione wasn’t about to be left behind, she kept pace with her friends.

The trio were halfway to the door when Severus called after them. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter, wear gloves.” A pair of dragonhide gauntlets came soaring through the air, linked by ties at the wrist. Harriet caught them neatly with a grin. “And I want those back when you’re done!” Severus chided. 

“Where are we going?” Ron queried as Harriet led them at a jog through the castle. 

“Chamber of Secrets,” Harriet said shortly. “We need basilisk bits.”

Ron wrinkled his nose in distaste at her phrasing. “I sincerely hope you don’t mean we need to go harvesting whatever’s between its legs… err, under its tail,” he said.

Harriet quirked a smile, delighted to be moving again. “Nope,” she assured him cheerfully. “We need teeth.”

“Oh, good,” Ron replied flatly. “Basilisk dentistry. Much better than basilisk urology.”

“Who said it was a boy basilisk?” Harriet asked, pushing the door to the bathroom open. “Hey, where’s Myrtle?” she asked, noting the silence.

“Dunno,” Ron replied. “Don’t complain, enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“I haven’t seen any ghosts at all since the younger years went home,” Hermione noted softly. “Peeves hasn’t been around either, and you’d expect him to be in amongst the action, playing pranks.”

Harriet nodded. It was odd, but she didn’t have time to think about that. Crossing to the sink, she fixed her eyes on the tiny carved snake, she spoke, hearing the hiss of her voice and the meaning of her word all at once. The tap began to glow, spinning wildly, and the sink moved away with a groan, revealing the long, sloping, slimy tunnel. “Well,” Hermione said decisively, “there’s no reason to make this harder than it needs to be.” Tapping her wand off the edge of the pipe, she cast the strongest cleaning charm she knew, then, with great concentration, transfigured the slide-like opening into a set of steep stairs. 

“Wish we’d had you with us last time,” Ron said. 

“I don’t think I’d have been much more use than you at thirteen years old, Ron,” she replied. She might not have said so a few months ago, but Severus was quite adamant that pride in oneself was healthy, but boasting was now. Hermione learnt fast. “Come on, then: let’s go.” 

Harriet went first, lighting her wand as she went and gingerly feeling for the next step down in the darkness. In silence, Ron and Hermione followed her. Soon enough, they came to the pile of rubble, scrambling over it and sending up puffs of dust.

“Ugh, it’s so creepy in here,” Hermione said as they stepped over the basilisk husk in the corridor. “I didn’t know the thing was so  _ big _ !”

“Yeah,” Harriet said shortly. She didn’t really like being here any more than Hermione. “C’mon. Let’s just get this done, okay?” The light of their wandpoints glinted off the sliminess of the stones. 

Ron wrinkled his nose as they approached. “Bit whiffy, isn’t it?” he whispered. 

“It’s been dead five years, Ronald, what do you expect?” Hermione countered. In truth, it didn’t smell as bad as Harriet had feared: if the exhale of cool, stale air as she’d opened the passageway was anything to go by, the chamber was pretty well sealed. 

Harriet resisted the urge to shush her. She wasn’t sure why, but this place felt like it needed quiet, as if they could disturb something here, though she knew that the basilisk was dead. “Let’s hope that there’s still useful venom,” she muttered, speaking as much to try and chase away her fears as to join in on the conversation.

Before long, they stood before the massive, slumped corpse of the basilisk. Hermione exhaled in appreciation of the sheer size of both the arching chamber and the monster itself. Harriet had remembered it bigger: it had seemed to tower over her like a mountain, but she’d been smaller then, of course. The volatile imagination of a twelve-year-old had probably had a lot to do with it too. She thought of the current second years. They seemed so tiny, just children. She shuddered to think that she’d been that tiny, facing down that huge monster. 

The fang she’d used to pierce the diary lay discarded on the ground. Carefully pulling on the gloves Severus had given her, she picked it up. “How’re we going to get the teeth out?” Ron asked, staring at the mouth of the corpse, his own lips pursed in a moue of disgust. 

“This one came out pretty easily when I stabbed it through my arm,” Harriet replied. 

“Well, we’d rather not stab ourselves,” Hermione reminded her primly. From the depths of her robes, she pulled a little silver knife in a sheath.

“You carry a dagger around with you?” Ron asked in amazement. 

Hermione shrugged. “Well, it’s come in useful now, hasn’t it?” she replied tartly. “Give me the gloves, Harriet?”

Gloved up, Hermione gripped the fang in one hand and plunged the knife into the roof of the creature’s mouth to dig the spike of bone free. As she did, there was a groaning creak, and the fang sheared clean off into her hand. “Oh!” she cried, sounding distressed, for not only had the fang snapped off, but a spurt of blood had washed over the knife, and it was melting into a rivulet of bright glimmers. 

“Well, at least we know it’s still poisonous,” Ron noted. “Come on, snap off the other two and let’s get out of here.

“That knife was a present from Severus,” Hermione said unhappily. 

Ron shrugged. “You can get a new one,” he said, completely missing the point. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

Harriet knew what he meant: their wands could not hope to illuminate such a vast space, and the air seemed to whisper around them, as if something were hiding in every shadow. “You know,” Hermione said as she snapped off another fang with a crack that echoed off the walls with eerie resonance, “I reckon this place must only exist in wizard space. It’s too big to be above ground in the castle, and we only went down about one flight of stairs.”

“I never got the whole ‘wizard space’ thing,” Ron admitted, peering into corners with his wand. “I mean, it’s not like it’s that common, is it?”

“My room’s in wizard space,” Harriet pointed out. Severus had explained to her that the Hogwarts house elves could create wizard space. “And the room of requirement, I think. Hey, if Slytherin had his own special chamber, do you think the other founders had them too? Somewhere in the castle, is there some kind of Gryffindor one, or Ravenclaw?”

“Room of requirement could be Ravenclaw?” Ron suggested. He yelped as a the dessicated skeleton of a rat crunched beneath his shoe.

“I don’t think that’s Ravenclaw,” Hermione said as she wiggled the last fang. “Ravenclaw would probably be a library. Ugh, this one just won’t come out!”

“Here,” Ron said. “Give me the gloves, and you take over doing the light.” 

Hermione carefully stripped off the gloves. They must have had layers upon layers of protective enchantments to resist the basilisk venom, and she wondered just how Severus had managed it. Did he buy them like this? Were they his enchantments, and why did he even own gloves that could withstand a basilisk?

Ron took over with the fang, yanking hard. “So, what do you reckon the room of requirement is then?” he asked.

“Hufflepuff’s,” Harriet answered before Hermione could. “Think about it: Hufflepuffs are all nice and give you what you want. Just like the room gives you whatever you need.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, just before she let out a short screech.

“I’m fine,” Ron said from where he’d landed, fallen hard onto his backside. “Look, I got the tooth!”

“I can see that!” Hermione snapped. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t really like being here.”

“You and me both,” Ron said, gathering the fangs in his gloved hands. “Come on, then.”

They took the walk in the gloom in silence, and all breathed a sigh of relief when they emerged in the bathroom again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see the inside of Myrtle’s bathroom,” Ron said. Harriet knew how he felt. “I do not want to go down there again.”

All the jumped as a grinding came from behind them, the sink moving back into place. “Pleased it waited until we were out,” Harriet muttered. She shivered. It was like Riddle’s presence still lingered there, though Harriet knew that was ridiculous. It was just her imagination, her memory. “I wonder how long we were down there for?”

“Dunno,” Ron said, hefting the fangs. “C’mon, these things are heavier than they look.”

Severus’ dark eyes tracked them as they returned to the hall. He bent his head to listen to something Draco, standing beside him, said, but he watched them from beneath his eyelashes. “Ah, Potter. You got them, then?” McGonagall asked. “Excellent. Let’s hope they still have potency… we know that the sword does, in any case…”

“They should,” Hermione said. “The blood dissolved my knife.” Snape’s gaze settled heavily on her, but he said nothing. Whatever he wanted to say would not have been appropriate here.

“We probably should have taken the sword,” Harriet thought. “It might have made it easier.”

“Yes, well, that was a good idea, to fetch the fangs. Well done, Potter,” Minerva finished. “Now, we’ve decided to keep the sword here in the hall, and if four people each take a fang, whilst we try to locate the snake…”

The door the hall crashed open, thudding back on it’s hinges. Bill stood in the doorway, blood trickling down his face, Imogen clutched in his arms, bridal-style. “Greyback’s in the castle,” he gasped before Ron almost pushed him to the ground to get to Imogen. 

  
  
  
  



	84. Battle commences

Bill swatted Ron away, crossing to a camp bed set up in the corner of the great hall reserved for a makeshift hospital. Gently, he laid Imogen down. “She was hit with a  stunner,”  he told Severus and Pomfrey, who were at his side. “She went down before I could catch her: I didn’t want to wake her in case she was in pain. I can’t find the other girl that was with us- Mhari. She vanished as soon as the Death Eaters appeared.”

Poppy was already casting diagnostic spells. “Ron, move!” Bill snapped. “I know you’re worried, but let the people who know what they’re doing figure it out!”

Sheepishly, Ron took a step back. Severus touched Poppy’s shoulder lightly. “I will see to her,” he said softly. “You see to William.”

Bill shook his head. “I need to go back,” he insisted. “I knocked him out, and Imogen took out another Death Eater with him, but who knows how long it’ll take them to move again. Most of our people are still out there! And if they go on arriving…”

“Sit,” Poppy informed him strictly. “Unless you want rotting wounds, you will sit!”

“Where were you?” Lupin demanded. He’d gathered a band around him- the twins, and Arthur, some Hufflepuffs and Hamish Leeson. There weren’t many left: as Bill had said, patrols were still out: strengthening wards, barricading rooms, keeping watch.

“Seventh floor, up near the Astronomy tower,” Bill replied, trying not to flinch away as Madam Pomfrey cleaned out his wounds with a potion that bubbled and hissed.

Nearby, Draco turned, any colour that was usually in his face completely drained. “Near where Imogen and Weasley got married?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Bill said with a grimace. “What d’you know, Malfoy?”

“His name is Draco Snape,” Severus said, his voice low and threatening, though he didn’t look up from Imogen, and his hand on her forehead was gentle. Lying flat, and without her school robes, Harriet could see that her midsection was swollen, raised with the beginnings of pregnancy. She hoped the babies were alright… she knew Imogen and Ron would both be devastated if something was wrong.

Bill waved his hand dismissively at Severus’ correction. Draco, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, hesitantly began to speak. “Last year… I was given a task by the Dark Lord. I failed. I failed deliberately.”

“Get on with it!” Charlie barked.

Draco glared at him, but did not retaliate. “He wanted me to repair a cabinet found in a room that only appeared when you needed it- the room where the wedding was, the room used in fifth year by Harriet and her little training group.”

“It’s called the Room of Requirement,” Harriet supplied, trying to be helpful.

“This cabinet…” Draco continued. “It’s paired. Working properly, whatever you put in one will appear in the other. If someone’s fixed it…”

“Vanishing cabinets! Fascinating! That there was one at Hogwarts…” Flitwick began dreamily. “Where is the other cabinet, Draco?”

“Malfoy manor, the last I knew,” Draco said quietly. 

“So there could be Death Eaters pouring into the castle?” Lupin said. “Brilliant. I don’t think we have a plan for if they actually got _ into  _  the castle. There are people out there… we’ve still got groups out strengthening the wards!”

McGonagall had her head in her hands. “We need to defend the Hall at all costs,” she said. “There’s too much here of value. Sooner or later, they will end up in the entrance hall. I can use the castle’s wards to lock down rooms, force them here…”

She was interrupted by a silvery lynx bounding down through the air. Kingsley’s voice came from its mouth. “He has breached the gate,” it said, and vanished.

There were a few beats of silence, then a soft voice. “The Death Eaters?” Imogen asked, newly woken. Ron and Molly were on her in seconds. She pushed them away, struggling to sit up. “What’s happening?”

McGonagall seemed to lose her indecision. She spoke in a rush. “Poppy, Severus, Flitwick, you’re defending the hall.” Her eyes swept over the other gathered witches and wizards. “Molly, Daphne, Draco, you’re with them. Imogen too, and Bill. No heroics: defend the entrance: shielding is your highest priority. Shut the doors, leave only the wicket door passable. Everyone else- the first task is to find Nagini the snake and kill her- attempt a killing curse if you can manage it, if not, Potter has the Sword of Gryffindor, and Longbottom, myself and Lupin all have a fang capable of destroying it. The last is in the hall. Move.”

The spell of silence broke. Voices, clamour. A scream, clattering footsteps. Harriet seemed to see everything and nothing at all, eyes on everything, and yet, not really getting a clear picture. This was it, then. Everything her life had been since the moment Voldemort had heard the prophecy. Everything had led to here, to this moment. 

She could be dead in an hour. She could be dead in five minutes.

She caught Ron’s eye, helplessly caught between his best friend and his wife. Imogen grabbed his wrist, tugged him down to her level and murmured something in his ear, kissed him on his cheek and then he was running towards Harriet, dodging his mother. Someone pressed something cold, hard, metallic into Harriet’s hand, and she was holding the sword. Hermione’s trembling hands buckled a belt about Harriet’s waist, guiding her hands to sheath the sword, bear the weight on her hip. Someone shoved her in the small of her back: Ron or Hermione or someone else entirely, but then she was stumbling, then running, caught in the wave from the hall. It seemed a pitifully small wave. Bill, Charlie, Draco and Hamish climbed the stairs, headed back up to the room of requirement to take the cabinet out of commission, and try to gather others still out in the castle. The heavy doors of the Great Hall clapped shut behind them, the clanging, rasping rush of the bolts thrown home. She risked a glance back in time to see sparkling magic wash over the wood and then the main doors were opening, McGonagall before them, wand upraised. Harriet flinched as twin suits of armour, one to either side of the door, clanked forward, holding their halberds in a mockery of a guard of honour. McGonagall walked confidently beneath them, though, and kept her head, so Harriet decided it must be safe. She wasn’t altogether sure how she’d ended up immediately behind the headmistress, Ron and Hermione half a step behind her: Ron to her right and Hermione to her left, and Neville directly behind her, but she had. She gulped. She was the target here, she was the cause. She quashed the urge, first, to run and hide, and second, to run straight out into Voldemort’s arms, beg him to leave her friends in peace, that she’d do anything, be anything, even his breeder, if he’d just turn around and not let blood be spilt.

But blood had already been spilt: blood running down Bill’s face. And who was to say that Imogen and the triplets would be alright? Who was to say that Voldemort wouldn’t take her and still destroy everything she loved, just because he could? No, she had to fight. She took a step out into the weak dawn light.

She’d expected the Death Eaters to be nearly at the castle. After all, why wait? But perhaps Voldemort was looking for theatricals, for he was striding statefully, surrounded by a knot of masked and robed Death Eaters. 

As his opponents fanned out down the stairs, he held up a hand, stopping his followers where they stood. He folded back the edge of his hood, revealing the snowy pallor of his face, the ruby of his eyes. “Will you cease this madness?” he hissed, his voice somehow carrying, reverberating, echoing in sinister whispers between the gathered. “Come with me. You will live in luxury, your body will produce the greatest wizards ever known. Come with me.”

Shivers ran down Harriet’s spine. He might as well be standing next to her, whispering into her ear, shifting through her mind. She took a deep breath, steeling her mental wards. Who cared know if Voldemort knew she was shielding? She knew… she could feel that this would be the last time they’d face each other. There was no escape, no worming away. This was deliberate. He had come here to fetch her, and she had come here to defeat him… or die trying. He was trying to take everything that mattered from her. If he took her, she’d kill herself. She knew how, now that Severus had told her. She’d do everything she could to take him with her, but perhaps this was what she’d always been meant to do. Dumbledore had meant her to die at the hands of Voldemort back when she was a baby: he’d been a clever man, a great wizard. Perhaps this was her destiny.

She spoke quietly. She knew, somehow, that he’d hear her. “No.”

He threw back his head, letting the pinkish light fall on his snake-like face. Harriet raised her wand. “ _ Expelliarmus _ .”

She hadn’t really expected it to work: it would have been too easy. Surely, it couldn’t end so easily. By the time the word left her numb lips, there was a shield around the husk that had once been a man named Tom Riddle, cast by his little band of supporters. Her spell spread, fizzled, died. Voldemort regarded her, his head cocked to the side and a lipless grin playing on his face. “You will be mine, little girl,” he hissed. “By tonight, you’ll be in my bed.”

“Don’t listen, mate,” Ron advised from behind her, his voice low and rough. “Don’t listen to his garbage. You know what we have to do.”

Harriet did know. Her eyes flickered around Voldemort, around the ground at his feet. Severus said he never went anywhere without Nagini, so where was she? She was a big snake, it wasn’t as if she’d be curled in his pocket. Where was the bloody snake? There was no point even trying to deal with the man until the horcrux was gone. 

But what, her traitorous mind asked, was to say that the snake really was the only horcrux left? What if there were more? What if the snake wasn’t a horcrux after all. What is  _ she  _ was one? After all, if she had Voldemort’s magic inside her… Her thoughts ran wild.

The problem was, there wasn’t time to think. The time for that had passed. Voldemort was moving again, step after slow, regal step, and she was frozen. “What do we do?” Neville hissed.

“Don’t make the first move,” Hermione muttered. This, at least, had been thought of discussed endlessly. No one wanted to be the one to provoke violence. Dumbledore, after all, Flitwick had pointed out, always advocated second chances. If they threw the first curse, they were no better than the Death Eaters. Better to react, defend, and keep a clearer conscience. Be ready, but don’t be hasty. Be ready. Harriet’s wand was clutched in her palm, sweat slicking the smooth, polished wood. She gulped. Behind her, someone shifted, someone whimpered, a high, short whine of fear. She knew how they felt. Fear sat in her stomach like a boulder.

She seemed to see it in slow motion. Voldemort raised his wand high. Instantly, hers was up, and not only hers. Colour bloomed around them as shields went up. Voldemort’s thin lips drew back over his teeth in a wolfish grin. He pointed his wand straight up into the air. His lips moved, but whatever spell he’d used to carry his voice had ended. Black wisps rose from his wand-tip, then a billow. In seconds, the Dark Mark lingered above their heads.

He was so confident of his victory that he put his sign up already? Something snapped in Harriet: cold anger blooming inside her. 

She broke formation.

Before she had time to think, before anyone had time to react, she had her wand levelled at Voldemort. “ _ Avada Kedavra, _ ” she declared hotly. Bugger the snake. They could get the snake later. 

She’d expected green light. She’d almost expected the high laugh that accompanied her memories of the light: she’d not have put it past Voldemort to laugh as he died. What she didn’t expect was… nothing. She froze. How had it not worked? She hated him more than anything else in the world!

The laugh came then, bubbling from his lips like a foetid spring. “You can’t even kill,” he hissed. “You, who’ve always extolled that virtue,  _ love _ .” The world sounded foreign and harsh on Voldemort’s tongue. “That your mother and her  _ love _ for you kept you alive. Such a pathetic tale. Love had nothing to do with it, girl. Happenchance, that’s all.” 

A flicker of his wand, and a shallow cut opened across Harriet’s cheek, warm blood dripping down her cheek. 

First blood. All hell broke loose, every witch and wizard breaking formation. Screams, and spells and flashes of light everywhere. Harriet lost sight of Voldemort in the melee of dark robes.

A high scream cut the air, and Harriet whirled, but she didn’t have time to see who it was, who had made the unearthly noise. She ended up looking into the blank silvery visage of a Death Eater mask, with no way of knowing who was behind it. Whoever it was, they were quick off the mark on casting  _ incarcerous _ , and Harriet had to leap out of the way of blossoming ropes as many times as she shielded against them. 

A trailing end of glowing rope settled over her shoulder, but was gone before it could take hold. Flame red hair flickered beside her: Ron, who’d vanished the rope before it could bind her. A blinding hex shot from his wand: Harriet used the moment’s peace from the darkness covering the sight of the Death Eater to blast off a  _ petrificus _ . “Thanks,” she panted as the body collapsed to the ground.

“No problem,” Ron replied shortly, using the  _ incarcerous _ that their opponent had so favoured to bind the unconscious form.

“We need to find the snake,” Harriet said. He nodded, and they ducked between duellers. It was strange, Harriet tough, blasting off a disarm when she had a clear shot at a Death Eater, that naturally, wizards paired off to fight. There was very little wide-range offensive magic, and magical battle was almost always one-on-one. It made an unpaired fighter very dangerous if they could get behind an opponent, behind their shields. An unpaired fighter like Harriet. It wasn’t easy, though, to get a clear shot, without risk of hurting a friend. A slight variance, sloppy wandwork… it could mean death to an ally. 

“Where is it?” Harriet hissed, Ron dogging her heels as closely as he could as she wove and ducked. A gout of flame skipped over Ron’s head and he yelped, real licks of fire coating his hair for a moment until Harriet flicked her wand in an instinctive reaction, dousing him in water. Ron reached up to pat his hair, wincing at the burnt strands coming off in his hand. Harriet had already turned, trying to keep her back to a pillar. “Where’s the damned snake?” she muttered. “Where’s Voldemort?”

Amongst hooded and masked figures, it was hard to make out any individual, but Voldemort had been unmasked. All that she could see bore silvery masks, though there were some with their backs turned. “Look,” Ron breathed, eyes wide. She flicked her gaze in the direction he stared, then looked again. 

Figures poured from the front doors of the castle: figures robed in black, masked in metal. Harriet swore. She turned to continue her search. Maybe someone else had found the snake? How would she know? Right now, a whiff of either the snake or her megalomanic master would be good- perhaps they could catch Voldemort unawares, disarm him, incapacitate him, but hold off on the killing blow? It seemed unlikely, but right now, survival was unlikely. 

Ron was still staring, stock still. Harriet shoved him hard in the ribs. Amongst a sea of black hoods, two redheads fought , back to back, of perfect equal height. It could only be the twins. “Move,” she hissed to Ron. They could do nothing for the twins: good wizards both. “We need to move. We’re sitting targets here.” Ron stumbled after her.

Anger. Frustration. Despair. She didn’t know what she felt. All there was was the ground beneath her feet, the constant duck and weave and the swirl of black, flashes of silver, and the noise. The crackle of spells hitting shields, the shouts as spells hit or missed or misfired, and, when you were close, the pant, the mutter of incantations. This wasn’t a fair fight. There were too many! They were schoolchildren, schoolteachers… and they never instigated this war. Anger bubbling up her esophagus, she shoved the point of her wand at the base of the skull of the Death Eater she was creeping behind, and, before he could turn from his combat with Anthony Goldstein- bloody and stumbling- Harriet muttered the words to a cutting curse. Not  _ sectumsempra _ : that required wandwork and space. This one was typically used, she believed, by butchers. It was effective: the masked creature’s head fell backwards, pink froth bubbling from his mouth as his lungs tried to continue with his spinal column obliterated. The look of shock on the usually equanimous Goldstein’s face would have been funny at any other time. “Potter?” he panted out. 

“Yeah. You seen the snake?” she asked. He shook his head. 

A screech cut through the melee: not an unusual sound at the moment, but this voice was familiar. “Hermione!” all three realised in unison. Goldstein was off running, but he was no sportsman, and injured to boot. He tumbled quickly. Harriet and long-legged Ron caught up easily, Ron keeping himself scrunched and bowed to avoid stray spells. “Try to make it inside,” Harriet advised Goldstein, her mouth close to his ear. “They may need help holding the Hall.”

“But…” Goldstein began.

Harriet didn’t let him finish. They didn’t have time. “We’ll get her,” she promised. “Go.”

Goldstein nodded and stumbled to his feet. Harriet plunged back into to the scrum, not even waiting to see where he went. She was entirely focussed now on finding Hermione. She wasn’t even sure when they’d lost her, but she hadn’t been with them in a while. 

Harriet could have howled in frustration as a tall, cloaked figure appeared before her. She threw up a strong spell-absorbing shield,  knowing nothing of the identity or strength of her opponent. Reflective shields were far too dangerous in close quarters like this: her opponent could use the rebound to hit her allies. 

She wasn’t even sure what she was flinging at her opponent. Everything from stinging hexes to cutting spells, and even Ginny’s favourite bat-bogey. Where was Ron? She couldn’t afford to drop her guard to look for him, but she’d certainly appreciate some help! She winced as a hex shot past her cheek as she dropped her shield to cast, leaving a welt in its path.

She was fast, and she was good at acting on instinct, but how could she, a seventeen year old, hope to match the wiles of a seasoned fighter, well versed in curses and hexes that she’d never even heard of? Her adversary was clearly not stupid. Unlike most of the others, he was silent, casting without incantations and refusing her that split second warning of what was to come. She threw up shield after shield, and all but her most powerful spells fizzled on his defences. Those that got through were severely weakened. She needed to get to Hermione! With a cry, she flung a full-body bind, but he just laughed, the sparkle of eyes visible behind his mask. 

“Harriet, run!” a voice called from above. What, run? Run where? She leapt back just in time to avoid some kind of missile pelting down from above her. She looked up. Ron hovered three feet above her head on his broom. The Death Eater she’d been fighting screamed as vines twined around his feet, locking him in place, and started blasting at them with curses. An unconscious grin twitched the corner of Harriet’s mouth: he was at risk of amputating his own feet! A foot cuffed her gently on the side of her head as Ron floated down. “On,” he said, offering her a hand to pull her up and thus avoid landing in the midst of the spreading vines, which were now beginning to sport thorns. 

“What is that stuff?” Harriet asked as she hauled herself onto the broom.

“A hybrid. Neville bred it. Devil’s snare and roses. Maybe he’ll get pretty flowers soon,” Ron replied, shooting above heads. “You need to eat more, mate, this broom’s barely sagging with two of us. No wonder you’re so fast: the broom thinks you’re not on it.”

“Whatever. Find Hermione,” Harriet replied. Ron hurled another of the little bundles into a knot of three Death Eaters creeping up on Seamus. 

It was easy to spot Hermione as soon as they rounded the side of the entrance walls. There were Death Eaters ringed around them, but none within almost a ten foot radius. Hermione was on her back, blasting a massive snake with volleys of brightly coloured spells, rolling away to avoid its snapping jaws.

Harriet lept from the broom from six feet in the air, sending shockwaves through her ankles as she landed. “Got you!” she said, but it came out as a sibilant hiss. Nagini paused mid-strike, the broad emerald head whipping around to face her. “Leave my friend alone,” Harriet hissed.

“But she is tasty,” Nagini replied. “I get mice, I get rats, but it is so rare that I get a human.”

“Not that human,” Harriet replied. She had half an eye on Hermione, who lay on the ground, panting out harsh, sobbing breaths, and… was that… there was someone else, that sodden pile of fabric was robes, covering a person. Was it a Death Eater? “There are other humans you can have,” she told the snake, indicating the encircling group of Death Eaters, still unwilling to come too close to Nagini.

“They taste of iron and darkness,” Nagini hissed. “They hurt my insides and I regurgitate them.”

“What about me?” Harriet asked after a moment’s thought. “Would I taste good?”

Nagini’s tongue flickered out, tasting the air. “Yessss,” she decided. “You would taste good.” She began advancing, her coils spreading and pushing her along the ground towards Harriet. There was a collective swish of fabric: Harriet presumed that the Death Eaters had moved back away from Nagini. Carefully, relying on the hope that Nagini, like almost all snakes, had poor vision, Harriet loosened the sword. Merlin, she hoped she could pull this off. She didn’t want to be snake fodder. 

Nagini’s massive head, as broad as a Hogwarts dinner plate, rose up, swaying before Harriet. The jaw began to open, stretching, stretching. She was hungry.

Harriet wrenched the cool metal of the sword up and out of it’s sheath, the sweat from her hand lessening her grip and the fine metalwork cutting into her palm. Using all the strength she had, both hands clasped tightly around the hilt and her arm muscles screaming with the strain, she brought the long sword up and crashed it down on Nagini’s head. The snake hissed and whined with the pain, whipping her head from side to side, trying to find Harriet to bite, to neutralise, to eat. Again, Harriet hacked.

Nagini’s head fell from her body, thick blood pouring from the sundered halves. A gasp: not just Hermione’s, not just Ron’s, who was kneeling by Hermione, but all the Death Eaters too. 

Harriet dropped the sword to the grassy ground with a dull thud, grasping her wand in her shaking arm instead. She sent gouts of flame from the end, driving back the encroaching Death Eaters. Ron got the idea too, and Hermione, grey and trembling, managed longer sprouts of fire than any of them. Harriet picked her way towards them, backwards. “Who’s under the cloak?” she asked quietly.

“La...lavender,” Hermione choked. Ron dropped to his knees, holding his wand out to keep the Death Eaters away. His fingers fumbled beneath the folds of the fabric, came out crimson with blood. 

“I think she’s dead,” he breathed.

No one was meant to die. That wasn’t how this worked. “Lavender!” Harriet shouted. “Lavender, get up! We need to get out of here!”

The prone form didn’t even twitch. Ron shoved her over onto her back as gently as he could with one hand. Half of her neck was bitten clean away. Ron retched. Harriet felt the bile rise too, but forced it back down with sheer force of will. “Oh God, oh God,” Hermione was chanting. 

“On the broom,” Harriet hissed. Ron tore his eyes away from Lavender’s mutilated form. He fished a plant missile from his pocket, launching it at the ground a foot in front of the Death Eaters, all eerily silent, more like dementors than humans. 

Glossy wood met Harriet’s left hand: Ron was pressing the broom handle into her palm. “Hermione, on the broom, now,” Harriet hissed, knowing that Hermione would take the longest to mount the smooth shaft. Ron took the front, steering the broom, and, going on instinct and necessity, Harriet mounted it backwards, facing towards the twigs. “Up!” she yelled.

It had flown well under the weight of two: with three mounted, the broom was terribly sluggish. A gloved hand reached out to clasp Hermione's ankle: she kicked him off with a  scream. She was sobbing. 

“You hurt?” Harriet asked shortly.

“It bit me,” she snuffled. “On the leg.”

Fuck. Nagini was venomous.

“Ron, into the great hall!” Harriet cried.

“How?” her friend called back. They were level with the high arched windows now. 

“Are you a wizard or not?” Harriet reprimanded. Summoning stones from the ground, she pelted them at the window until it shattered in a hail of sparkling glass. Ron zoomed into the hall, squeezing them between the arching mullions.

 


	85. To live is to die

Professor Flitwick and Molly Weasley were defending the door: Molly ready to fire stunning hexes and body binds at anyone who made it through, whilst Flitwick repaired the door as often as some spell from the other side damaged it. All the occupants of the room jumped in surprise and fear as the window shattered, Poppy Pomfrey even letting out a shriek. The trio found themselves at wandpoint for a few terrifying seconds until they were recognised. Poppy went back to tending her patient: Harriet realised it was Bill. She hoped they’d managed to destroy the vanishing cabinet, though she couldn’t see any of the others who’d gone out with him.

Severus, looking grey and drawn, opened his mouth, no doubt to pour out something acerbic as they landed hard in the middle of the room, but Ron beat him to the punch. “Hermione’s bit!” he snapped out. “By you-know-who’s snake!” Ron had Hermione in his arms already, laying her on a makeshift hospital bed.

“Where, Hermione?” Severus demanded of the pale, shaking girl, leaping towards them. He was fishing in the inside pocket of his robes: he came up with a little bottle containing what looked to be a stone.

“My leg,” Hermione whispered, gesturing to her left leg. 

Severus shook the contents of his bottle into his hand. “Swallow this,” he commanded. “A bezoar: it will slow the poison.” He began barking out orders to Imogen, who scurried to the stacks of potions, picking out first one, then the other. He used his wand to delicately slice down the filthy, mud-encrusted fabric of Hermione’s jeans, revealing two angry red punctures just above her knee, the flesh around them already spreading tendrils of acid green and crimson. The poison was spreading. Hermione whimpered. Severus gripped her chin tightly between finger and thumb. “Look at me, Hermione,” he commanded. “Just look at me. You’re going to live. I’m going to make sure you live, do you understand me?”

“Yes… yes, Sir,” she stammered. 

“Good girl.”

“It hurts…” 

“I know, love,” he replied hoarsely. “Just keep looking at me, not your leg.” He took a bottle of potion the colour of rust from Imogen and upended it over the wounds on Hermione’s leg, which was swelling before their eyes, looking tight and red. He looked up at Harriet for a second. “What’s going on out there? We’re not seeing as much action here as I’d suspected.”

“It’s crazy,” Harriet replied. “There's so many. I had no idea he had so many supporters. They’re everywhere.” She looked down at Hermione, who’d screwed her eyes shut and flung her head to the side. “I… I need to get back out. There’s not enough on our side as it is.”

“Be careful. Harriet,” Severus warned. “He’s probably brought in foreign supporters if there are as many as you say.” He wanted to tell her to go, to run, to get as far away from here as she could: to take that broom and fly through the front gates, mangled and destroyed by the Dark Lord. But he knew that she wouldn’t. He knew that it wouldn’t do any good. He’d hunt her down. Anything for glory, for the chance of his immortality, if not in body, then in lineage. 

Harriet nodded. “I will,” she assured him, though he didn’t think they had the same definition of ‘careful’. “Snake’s dead, at least.”

Severus nodded. He’d hoped as much, but he had no time to talk strategy right now. He gripped Hermione’s hand. “This is going to hurt, Hermione. I’m sorry,” he said. He took the second bottle from the end of the bed, where Imogen had placed them, and uncorked it with his teeth. Hermione whined into the back of her throat, and the crescents of her fingernails dug painfully into his hand as he irrigated the wound with the strongest antivenom he had. He watched the tendrils of poison spreading beneath her skin… they were moving too fast. He needed to head them off with antivenom. “Imogen!” he called- he’d discovered that she was still too new to the name ‘Weasley’ to respond to it, and so had resorted to her given name. “Fetch my healer’s bag… no, the black one, the green is Poppy’s. Hurry, girl!”

He felt the rush of air from the broom rustle his hair as he snatched the bag from Imogen. Harriet and Weasley were gone; back out to the battle. Imogen watched them go, her lip firmly between her teeth. Severus was relieved she was too sensible a girl to cry and carry on. “Repair that window,” he instructed, already digging out his syringes. He was in no mood for niceties as Hermione lay prone, deadly poison seeping into her system. He filled the syringe with antivenom. 

“Hermione,” he murmured softly, dipping his head close to her ear, his words stirring the baby hairs above her ear. “I’m going to try to block the venom from going further. I promise it’s going to be fine, do you hear me?” She twisted her head in a semblance of a nod. He knew well enough by now that Hermione had a good tolerance for pain: she was no wimp, and yet, she was desperately struggling to hold back whimpers and outright cries. He weighed up the options: he could render her unconscious, but it would remove any ability to defend herself. Then again, as much pain as she was suffering, she wouldn’t be much use in a fight in any case.

He had to use his wand to bring up a mapping of her blood vessels shadowing on her thigh. The tendrils were stretching towards her hip with alarming speed: if he couldn’t stop them very soon, he’d have to take her leg off to save her life. He didn’t want Hermione to live as an amputee: bones and skin could be regrown, but not an entire limb. Carefully deciding on his first position, he sunk the needle into her skin. He winced as Hermione cried out as the point bit painfully into the swollen flesh. That made the decision for him. He placed the tip of his wand lightly at her temple, whispered a spell for sleep, watched her face slacken in slumber. He realised Imogen was watching in open fascination, but he had neither the time or the inclination or explain his actions. 

Five minutes later, he laid the syringe down. He was reasonably sure that he’d prevented the poison from spreading, now it was a waiting game to see if her body could fight it with the help of the potions and bezoar. By the Green Gods, he hoped that she could. He’d lost Lily, he couldn’t lose Hermione. 

He paused. When had he come to care so much about Hermione, love her so much that he feared a world without her there? His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as he stroked a hand over her hair. He’d truly thought that part of him had died with Lily, the part that could long so for someone to be beside him always. He unhooked her tightly clenched fist from the bed and raised it to his mouth to brush a kiss over her knuckles. He’d thought he’d been doing right by putting distance between them. It didn’t seem to make it hurt any less, though. 

“Professor?” an unsure voice asked. 

He raised an eyebrow to Imogen. “You are not a stupid girl,” he noted by way of explanation. Imogen wisely chose not to say anything more, though she wondered if Hermione knew how the Potions professor felt about her. She wondered what was going on outside- was Ron okay? Was he hurt? Her hand dropped to her little bump. She almost wished that she was further along, that she could feel kicks and movement, just to know that the babies were alive, were doing okay. 

Sensing that Professor Snape wanted to do nothing but fret over Hermione, Imogen crept away to watch Madam Pomfrey instead. A few groups had returned from around the castle: most had gone back out to fight, but there had been injuries. Madam Pomfrey was arguing with Bill Weasley, who’d now taken to growling, and had been magically restrained. Imogen hoped he wouldn’t become a werewolf from his contact with Fenrir Greyback: she hadn’t thought that werewolves could turn others unless it was the full moon and they were in werewolf form. If she’d been You-know-who, she’d have waited until the full moon, she thought. He had a lot of werewolves on his side. She supposed she should be grateful that he hadn’t waited. Perhaps it was too hard to control the wolves at the full moon, she mused.

Professor Flitwick seemed to have finished repairing the damage to the door caused in the last wave of Death Eaters to have targeted it, and he sat on the floor, his back to the wood. She poured two goblets of juice, taking one each to Molly and the professor. 

“What do you think’s going on out there?” she asked quietly as the adults drained the goblets. 

Flitwick shook his shaggy head sadly. “Hard to say,” he replied. “We’re not getting as much action here as I’d feared… but that could be good or bad.”

“How so?” Imogen asked curiously. 

“Well, it could mean that there aren’t so many Death Eaters left,” Molly explained.

“Or that the battle is a forgone conclusion, and they can pick us off later,” the professor finished quietly. “We shall just have to wait and see.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled encouragingly. “No news is good news, my dear,” she said, but her smile didn’t reach her hunted eyes. Her gaze lingered on Bill. Her children were out there, Imogen realised. Her children, her husband… Again, Imogen stroked her tummy. At least her children were safe inside her. They couldn’t run off into heroics. 

Molly reached out to put her work-worn hand atop Imogen’s smooth fingers. “We’re fighting for a better world for those babies,” she said softly. Imogen smiled wanly. 

“Let me in!” a voice called from the other side of the door. “Please, let me in!”

Molly looked up. “That sounds like a student!” she cried. She reached for the bolts. 

“Wait, Molly!” Flitwick reprimanded. “Remember, it could be anyone, disguising themselves.”

Molly glared at him, her hands still on the bolts. “I know, Filius!” she snapped. She opened the door just an inch, her wand ready. Flitwick had thrown up a shield before her. “Your password, dear?” she asked kindly.

“Percival,” the voice replied shyly. The password had been pre-arranged before any groups went out to strengthen the wards, secret kept by Madam Pomfrey to prevent it being tortured out of anyone. 

Molly opened the door a little wider. “In, dear,” she said, ushering her inside.

“Mhari!” Imogen cried out. “What happened? We couldn’t find you… you just vanished!” Mhari Featherstone, the sixth-year ravenclaw who’d made up the third with her and Bill, had disappeared as soon as the Death Eaters had appeared, and Bill had been completely unable to find her. The suspicion had been that she was probably dead.

Mhari hung her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered tearfully. “I was so scared! They all just came out of nowhere! I locked myself in the store cupboard for ages, until I couldn’t hear anything anymore.”

Mrs. Weasley patted her on the shoulder. “We’re just pleased you’re alright, my dear,” she said. “No one will blame you for hiding; it was a very sensible idea.”

Severus was stalking across the room. “Any news from outside, Miss Featherstone?” he demanded. 

The diminutive girl looked up, her face thrown into shadow by a wash of inky hair. Her blue eyes were wide and bright with tears. “He’s got Harriet Potter,” she said softly. 

“What?” Severus said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “What did you say?”

She dropped her eyes to the floor, her hair hiding her face entirely. “The Dark Lord,” she admitted stutteringly. “He has Harriet… he’s got her tied up; he’s taking her. He told the Death Eaters to kill everyone else...”

Severus was shaking the girl by the shoulders. “You’re sure?” he snapped. “You’re completely sure? Don’t lie to me, girl!”

“Severus,” Molly said, tears falling down her own face, “there’s no need to frighten the girl.”

“No!” Severus growled. “No, he can’t have her!” He was pulling on the bolts at the door, panic making his fingers clumsy. 

Flitwick tugged nervously on Severus’ robes. “Severus, think,” he said, keeping his high voice quiet. “You achieve nothing by going out there! He will not spare your life!”

Severus whirled, pulling himself up to his full height and glaring down at Filius. “I know that,” he snapped. “But I will not stand by and let him have her! I’m dead anyway, a sitting duck in this godsforsaken place!” 

He succeeded in pulling back the heavy bolts and ducked out through the sallyport door. 

It was easy to find where he should be: the entrance hall was currently deserted, but the sounds of battle carried clearly from outside. Pausing for a moment to disillusion himself (it was unlikely to last long, but it might help somewhat) he slipped out from the main doors. 

He had to slip past numerous duellers, all fighting close to the castle entrance. He couldn’t even really tell who was fighting to get in and who was defending. He couldn’t get caught up here, he told himself, he had to carry on. He swept his eyes across the group, looking for Harriet: her telltale height amongst the taller Death Eaters, her quick, no-nonsense wand style. He didn’t see it, though he could hard more fighting around the side of the castle. 

There were so many bodies, so many lumps of clothing, cloaks and robes and muggle clothes strewn across the lawns. The casualties were on both sides. He scanned the area quickly, looking for the Dark Lord, looking for Harriet. Was he too late? He didn’t even know what he intended to do, he just knew that he had to do  _ something _ . But had they left already? 

He could see a number of people who clearly weren’t dead, but taken hostage, trussed and tied like poultry for the oven. He slipped past a Death Eater who was so broad in the shoulders that it had to be Goyle senior, and crouched behind a well-bound George Weasley. A voiceless spell cut the bonds quickly. “Stay quiet,” Severus whispered quickly, trusting that George would recognise his voice. “Don’t let on that you’re free. Where’s Harriet?”

“No idea,” George hissed as quietly as he could. “Haven’t seen her in ages. Aren’t you supposed to be inside?”

“I was told she had been captured,” Severus hissed back. 

George shook his head slightly. “Not that I know,” he murmured. 

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

Severus froze. He knew that voice. Yaxley. He closed his eyes in despair as he was pulled up roughly by the collar of his robes like a naughty kitten, a wand jabbed into his back. “ _ Corpus debilito, _ ” Yaxley muttered. Severus’ muscles went limp, his wand dropped uselessly to the floor. George surged to his feet, shouting a hex, but the commotion had alerted others, and he found himself immobilised again in very short order. “Well, now, Snape,” Yaxley told the man hanging limply from his grip, “I know our Lord is very keen indeed to get his hands on you.” He turned to Goyle. “Call the Lord,” he instructed. 

The world was a medley of grass and mud and bodies rushing by and painful thumps as Severus’ limp form was dragged down into the open. “Behold the traitor!” Yaxley called out. Severus was thrown face-first onto the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. He closed his eyes, one of the few muscle movements left to him, and waited for death. He’d hoped to help Harriet, but he’d failed. He’d failed, again and again, all though his life. 

A whispered  _ crucio _ struck him, and the pain bloomed inside him, the tremors strong enough to tense even his useless spell-weakened muscles. He almost never screamed through cruciatus: this time, he couldn’t. The crack of apparition sounded before him. He arms were yanked roughly behind him, tied with spell rope, as were his legs, and then, finally, Yaxley ended the paralysis charm. Cautiously, Severus raised his head.

It was as he’d feared. The pale, unearthly face of Lord Voldemort looked down on him, a terrifying smile stretching his almost non-existent lips across his teeth. The Dark Lord crouched to come more level with his one-time follower. “You thought to escape me?” he asked, his hissing voice carrying. “You thought that you could desert me, and yet live? No, Severus, no… you are to be my example. You have failed me, you have failed our cause. A traitor is the worst of creatures, the most despicable… a traitor to your own blood, Severus…”

He didn’t even try to fight. Through a fog, Severus heard a scream, but nothing else. The fighting… had the fighting stopped? For him? How strange…

A rustle of robes, and the Dark Lord stood. Severus turned his face up to the sky, fully light by now. It should have been raining, he mused. It should have been hailing, sleeting, a gale, any apocalyptic weather. Instead, the sky was pure, deep blue, little cotton-wool clouds drifting. A perfect morning. A perfect morning to die. At least it was here, Hogwarts, a place he had come to love despite himself. At least it was now: his son was grown. Robin could look after himself now. He didn’t need Severus’ help anymore. A tear escaped the corner of Severus’ eye, trickled down the side of his nose. At least one good thing had come from his life. 

Why was there still nothing? Why was he not dead yet, or writhing in torturous pain? He risked a glance at the Dark lord, standing with arms upraised, wand pointing to the sky. For goodness sakes, he was completely defenceless! Was there nobody left on the side of the light who could kill him where he stood? “Behold!” Lord Voldemort called out. “Behold the death of the traitor, and a warning to all those who hold such ideas in their hearts!” His wand came down until it was pointed at Severus, who chose the moment to wonder if the killing curse was painful. It didn’t matter, in any case. In moments, he would be dead, and nothing would matter anymore. 

Severus kept his eyes open. He looked death in the face. “You are a terrible leader. You are no leader at all,” he spat.

Voldemort couldn’t let him have the last word. “I will lead this world, I will have glory rained upon me,” Voldemort hissed with a tight grin. “But you… traitor, you will have a coward’s death.” 

The crack seemed to reverberate from everywhere, echoing from the walls and the forest. Then another, and a third. Severus looked on in confusion as the Dark Lord crumpled, his knees giving, blood blooming down his face in starbursts of crimson radiance. He hit the ground sounding like what he was- an empty, lifeless body. A breath still rasped from his throat, then another: nothing but the desperate efforts of a set of lungs to keep going despite all else. 

Utter silence. Severus, left staring at the heap of robes and deathly-pallored skin, could hear the lap of the lake in the background, the shore not fifteen feet from where he knelt. No one approached. But Severus knew that sound. He twisted in his bonds, finally managing to turn himself to his back, staring up at the castle. There, on the first floor, a flicker of movement at a window. Could it be? Surely, surely, Robin was not here. Anyone could wield a gun. For that had to be what it was- the resounding crack, the blossoming blood on the Lord’s face, the blood soaking his robes, dying the black even deeper. The there were hands on him: Harriet, sobbing, Minerva, scolding him. 

“Cut me free,” he ground out, not listening to either. He had to know… he had to find out- was that Robin? He knew it was impossible, how could Robin be here? But he had to know, know for sure. As soon as the ropes we free, he was struggling to his feet, trying to make his recently-paralysed legs support him, the blood flow not yet returned after their binding. 

“Severus?” Minerva demanded, thrusting an arm about his waist before he tumbled. “What are you doing?”

He shook her off as if she were a particularly antagonising fly. “I need to go! I need to make sure…”

“He’s dead,” someone confirmed. Severus spared a glance: Lupin, bloodied, bruised, and with an arm hanging uselessly at his side, was standing over the shell of Voldemort. “There’s no breath, no pulse. He’s dead.”

“Yes, but how did he die?” Severus puffed, hurrying as fast as he could up to the castle. At the moment, that wasn’t terribly quickly, so he still heard Lupin’s response.

“I have no idea…”

“That was a gunshot,” Severus called back. “Try summoning a bullet- you’ll see.”

Minerva was still questioning him as he began to pick up speed, feeling at least eighty if not a hundred. His knees kept threatening to give out under him. Harriet’s brain finally seemed to catch up. “Robin!” she gasped. 

“Possibly,” Severus replied. He avoided a long-winded explanation, saving his breath as much as he could.

“Where?” Harriet demanded, but Severus didn’t even answer. He used the heavy stone balustrades to support himself up the sweeping front stairs, the pumping of his legs finally returning feeling and some strength. He crossed the entrance hall with surer steps. Harriet kept pace with him, though she was jumpy and nervy. Part of her wanted to run on ahead, but she didn’t know where she was going. 

Severus plodded determinedly on, aiming for the general direction he’d seen the flash in the window. He climbed a flight of stairs and paused. Which was was best to go? He’d caught only the faintest glance of movement, it had been next to impossible to tell exactly where the shots had come from. From the direction of the castle, certainly, but hadn’t seen the trajectory. He had no idea of the range of weapons, he knew almost nothing about guns. He’d heard Robin talk at length, of course, but it wasn’t a topic that had interested him enough to pay great attention. He’d relied on the advice of others to buy Robin his gun. He wished he’d paid attention now. His grasp of geometry was reasonable, but he needed some information to go on!

Harriet looked at him expectantly. “Which way?” she asked, almost vibrating with tension.

“Hush,” Severus rasped sharply. He listened. Should they head towards the sound of fighting? He decided that was best. If Robin was here, he was defenceless to magic. “This way,” he decided. It would take them to the rooms along the front of the castle, a sensible enough direction. He reached for his wand.

“Merlin’s bloody bollocks,” he snapped out. “I’ve lost my wand.”

“It’s okay,” Harriet said quietly. “Let me go first.”

It made Severus prickle, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He gestured sharply for Harriet to go before him, though she kept glancing back to make sure he was keeping up. “Get on with it!” he snapped at her. “Just move!”

Their speed then didn’t matter. They both ran when they heard the next shot, Harriet’s young legs carrying her ahead of Severus. “Robin!” Severus called out hoarsely. He’d never have acted so carelessly if anyone but his son were at risk. 

Harriet was slamming open every door along the corridor, but room after room was empty. She pushed open the very last and shrieked, coming face to face with the business end of a gun.

Severus caught up to her just as Robin swung the gun to point at the floor. He pushed the heavy ear defenders back off his head, letting them clatter noisily to the stone floor.“Harriet?” he asked quietly. “Dad?” He looked at them, his eyes huge in his paper-pale face. Harriet eyed him uncertainly, not sure what to do, not understanding why he was here. Severus carefully stepped over a spreading pool of blood and wizard on the floor, slowly taking the gun from Robin’s hands. “Careful,” Robin murmured. “It’s loaded.” Severus laid it on the floor, muzzle pointing into the far corner of the room, then glared at Robin.

“Stupid boy!” he hissed. “Stupid, careless, crazy boy! What are you doing here!”

“He was going to kill you!” Robin burst out plaintively. “I thought he was going to kill you! I couldn’t let him kill you!” He let out a hitched breath that could have easily been called a sob. “And then… him. I think he’s dead...I’ve killed two men!”

Severus crouched to pull the mask from the dead wizard’s face. “This is McNair,” he informed Robin. “He was an executioner, and more than that, he enjoyed the kill. I’ve seen him torture innocent muggles, I’ve seen him kidnap and rape and kill. Death is probably kinder to him than a life sentence in Azkaban.” He wiped his blood-smeared fingers off on McNair’s robes. “You rather made a mess of it, though.”

“A hunting rifle isn’t exactly a close-range weapon,” Robin said shakily. “There’s bits of him on the wall.”

“I can see that,” Severus replied dryly. “I think it best if we leave him here.”

He put a hand on Robin’s shoulder to guide him towards the door. “I killed someone!” Robin repeated.

“Well, what did you come here to do if it wasn’t to kill someone?” Severus asked. Robin didn’t answer. Severus sighed. “You’re in shock. Come, we need to get you safe. Fetch your gun.”

Robin closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. He nodded, crouching to pick it up and keeping his eyes carefully averted from the still-bleeding corpse, even as he had to step over it. “Are you… alright?” Harriet asked quietly. She half wanted to fling herself at him, and half of her felt like this wasn’t really Robin, this dark, serious, scared man-child. He looked like the Robin who’d appeared in Severus’ living room clutching a broken wrist to his chest, not like the Robin she thought of as  _ hers _ \- grown up and kind and sure of himself.

“He’s always been squeamish, about humans, anyway,” Severus replied for him when he was silent. “Not so much with animals.”

He glared at his father, then turned his attention to Harriet, his eyes sweeping over her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there. “I’m okay,” he replied hoarsely. “Wait, though… I’ve got to unload.”

“Leave it loaded,” Severus replied. “There may be other Death Eaters in the castle. Stay quiet, but as soon as we are safe, I shall have the entire tale of how you came to be here.”

Robin nodded glumly. Briefly, he took one hand from supporting his gun to slip it into Harriet’s, squeezing tightly for a moment.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going on holiday tomorrow, and couldn't possibly leave you not knowing what happened in the battle until I came back! There won't be any updates for a bit though- about two weeks. Sorry!  
> Thank you for all your lovely reviews- they are much appreciated, and always cause some excitement!


	86. For whom the bell tolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I didn't manage to get any writing at all done on holiday, so hopefully will get lots done soon so I can keep up a posting schedule.

The death of Voldemort had been like a gunshot, like the gunshot that killed him. As soon as the breath left his body, Death Eaters had fallen, clutching their arms as the mark burned, the pain leaving them utterly helpless, vulnerable. Most found themselves summarily removed to holding cells at the ministry by hastily-arrived aurors, taking advantage of the fallen wards, and, some would later say, the sudden cessation of most of the danger to their persons. It was then that the process of finding and sorting the bodies began.

Harriet hadn’t considered this part. She knew that Lavender was dead, at least knew it rationally. Knowing and believing, though, were two very different things. When Lavender was carried in, pale and drained of blood, her hair spilling over Kingsley Shacklebolt’s arm, it was as if the world stopped for a moment. Lavender was her age, she wasn’t meant to be dead!

Harriet glanced down at Hermione, sleeping on the bed beside her. Severus said that she’d probably sleep for a while yet, and that she would most likely recover after the snake bite, though they couldn’t be sure until after she woke and moved. It could have easily have been Hermione killed by Nagini. Harriet was glad that it wasn’t, and then she felt awful. She and Lavender hadn’t been friends, far from it, but she didn’t deserve to die. Then again, nor did Hermione. 

As their allies trickled in from around the castle, it was becoming clear that there were not as many as there should have been. McGonagall had been rushed immediately to St. Mungo’s in the throes of a heart attack. Kingsley had summoned in the aurors to take living Death Eaters into custody and collect the bodies, and it was mostly their brown robes that could be seen coming and going, levitating bodies before them. Where had they been? Harriet wondered ruefully. Wasn’t it their job to defeat dark wizards? Shouldn’t it have been them to take down Voldemort, not Robin, sitting cross legged and hollow-eyed with his gun laid across his knees, answering Severus’ questions about how he got to Hogwarts with as few words as humanly possible? He traced his fingertips almost hypnotically over a whorl in the wood at the butt end of his rifle. He looked up, his eyes tracking across the hall, and spotted her. Lifting one hand slightly, he beckoned to her with a tiny, forced smile. She went, gingerly sitting beside him. 

She snuggled against his side, needing the comfort, but he still sat rigid. “I don’t deserve you,” he muttered. “I killed two men…”

“I’m not sure how many I killed today,” she whispered back. “And you killed the man who killed my parents. I’m hardly going to resent that.”

“This is not the point!” Severus snapped, standing over the pair of them. “Robin, you could have been killed!”

Robin glared up at his father. “And you’d be dead if it weren’t for me!” he shouted back, drawing quite a few glances. “You should probably be thanking me, not telling me off! I’m not seven years old anymore, Dad!”

Severus bent until he was inches from Robin’s face. “I was ready for death,” he hissed dangerously.

“Well, I wasn’t ready to be an orphan!” Robin replied hotly. “So deal with it.”

Severus just gawped at his son. 

“Good, I got your attention,” Robin said. “Now, you can listen to me.” His brain was beginning to clear, and what Harriet had said made sense- he wasn’t exactly proud of shooting a man, shooting two men, but they’d committed atrocities. This was war, and death was a part of war. At least he hadn’t killed bystanders, innocents: there weren’t any. Everyone who was here had known what they were risking, he’d known what he was risking. Robin gently pushed Harriet up to support her own weight and stood. He didn’t want to say this being looked down upon. “I knew when I came here that I might get killed. I came anyway, I’m not a child to be protected any more. I’ve got as much right as any of the students here to want to fight. This is my future too, you know. I’ll probably have a wizard’s lifespan, and I know about the wizarding world. I want to protect it. And I thought I was failing- I couldn’t get a clear shot. But then I had to- I couldn’t watch you be killed, any more than you could let me die. And I know it probably wasn’t my place to kill him, but he’s dead, and I wasn’t going to hang about and wait for someone else when I could  _ do something _ !” He glared at his shell-shocked father. “And it’s done. There’s no point fretting over burnt potions, you used to say. We take actions, and we live with the consequences. Well, that’s what I’ve done.” He was itching to continue as Severus just looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but he forced himself to keep his mouth shut. He shouldn’t have to justify himself, and he certainly wasn’t going to blabber on like a naughty child.

“You were still foolish to the highest degree,” Severus reprimanded. “Stupid, foolish boy.” But despite his words, he reached out to pull Robin to him into a brief embrace.

Even had he wanted to, there was no time for more than the quickest show of fatherly affection before screams filled the room. The gathered bristled with wandpoints, but it was only one person screaming, her cries rising to the enchanted, azure blue ceiling. 

Kingsley crouched to lay Charlie’s limp body before Mrs. Weasley. “I’m so sorry, Molly,” he said, his voice quiet, but carrying as Molly’s cries faded into shocked silence. She fell to her knees, her hands fretting at Charlie’s pallid face. His heavy dusting of freckles stood out like flecks of dried blood on his cheeks. “Charlie… Charlie, wake up,” she pleaded, patting his cold cheek. 

Poppy knelt beside her, her sure fingers pressing to the place where a pulse would have been on Charlie’s throat. “Molly… I’m sorry, but he’s gone,” she explained softly. Molly didn’t listen, shaking Charlie’s shoulders with increasing urgency. Poppy laid her hands over Molly’s. “Molly, stop. He’s not coming back.”

“My son,” Molly whispered, looking down at Charlie. “What did my son ever do to deserve this?”

Kingsley rested a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “He fought bravely,” he murmured. “He died for all of us.”

Molly nodded, her movements jerky, wooden. “Where are my other children?” she asked. Her voice rose to plaintive levels. “Where are my sons? Where is my daughter?”

“It’s okay, Mum,” Ron said quietly. “We’re here. And Ginny’s safe.” With great hesitation, he started forwards until he was standing inches from his brother’s body. He dropped to the floor, Bill only moments behind him.

“What happened to him?” Bill wanted to know as the hand he’d fisted in Charlie’s black robes came up crimson.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head sadly, warningly. It would not help Mrs. Weasley to see the gaping wound that had been her second son’s abdomen. Mrs Weasley looked up, frantic. “The twins?” she queried. “Harriet?”

“I’m here,” Harriet said, stepping forward and away from Robin, confused that Mrs. Weasley should worry so about her. 

“I saw George just before the Dark Lord’s death,” Severus said quietly. He’d never had any difficulty telling the Weasley twins apart- their mannerisms, to him, were completely different. Fred held himself with something approaching cockiness; George with a more studious air. The inflections of their voices, too, were different. 

“But where is he now?” Mrs. Weasley demanded shrilly. “Where are my sons?” She stood, shaking off Madam Pomfrey’s hand. “I’m going to find them!”

“Molly, no,” Kingsley said, stepping in front of her. “It’s no sight for a lady out there.”

“I’m no fine pureblooded lady, Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she informed him sharply. “I’m a mother, and my son lies there dead! You can’t deny me my other children!” She pushed past Kingsley just to come up short. Fred stood in the doorway, every muscle trembling and twitching. 

“Mum,” he mumbled hoarsely, “I think you should sit down.”

“Oh, Freddie,” Molly choked. “Freddie, you’re alive…”

“Sit down, Mum,” he repeated.

Bill placed his blood-streaked hands on his mother’s shoulders, pulling her back and onto a bench. His eyes never left his brother’s. Fred licked his lips nervously, his arm jumping in nervous, staccato rhythm. Severus watched him carefully. His movements seemed born of more than just nerves and fatigue, but that was a problem for later. “Georgie?” Molly asked fearfully. 

“He’s… he’s okay, Mum,” Fred said. He beckoned to someone around the corner. 

Arthur looked asleep: not bloodied and waxen like Charlie, or missing limbs like so many others. George’s arms strained under the weight of carrying his father. He headed towards Molly until something else caught his eye, and he turned. He looked at Charlie through painfully dry eyes, then, slowly, took a step towards him, and another, laying Arthur down beside his son. Fred took a splintered wand from his pocket and offered it, hit first, to Molly. 

Everyone was silent as Molly just stared at the bodies of her husband and her son, laid side by side. George had placed them so close that their hands touched, as if, even in death, they were together. One of the foremost families of the light, perhaps the foremost family guarding against the darkness, together, untied, was torn. Harriet stared uncomprehendingly at the bodies: how could Arthur, fascinated equally by a simple fuse and a nuclear reactor, how could he possibly be dead? The utter silence suggested that she wasn’t the only one who suddenly struggled to breathe. 

Molly took a deep, shuddering breath, then she nodded. She took the wand from Fred. “Does anyone have Charlie’s wand?” she asked shakily. 

“It probably lies where he fell,” Kingsley replied, his deep voice quiet and sad. “I shall go and find it.”

“Please,” Molly said. “It’s ash and dragon heartstring. You’ll know it when you see it- it’s scorched.” Kingsley nodded briskly and was gone. Molly stood from the bench and crossed over the short distance to where her husband and son lay fallen. Ron sat by their heads, Imogen behind him, one hand on his shoulder. Molly lowered herself to her knees beside them, and, leaning over, kissed Charlie and Arthur tenderly on their foreheads. Still no tears came. 

“My deepest condolences, Molly,” Severus sympathised silkily from behind the grieving widow. She nodded stiffly, unable to force words from her tight throat.  “Fred,” Severus said, beckoning. “Come.” With slow steps and a stubbornly raised chin, Fred went. “Cruciatus?” Severus asked quietly, trying to make sure that Molly didn’t hear.

Fred nodded jerkily. 

“How long?” Severus pressed.

“Dunno. Felt like forever.”

George knew more. “About three, maybe four minutes?” he guessed. “There were two of them, casting at the same time.”

Severus arched an eyebrow in surprise. “It’s a wonder you survived,” he said with something that, in anyone but Severus, might have been taken as admiration. “Come. I have potions that will ease the spasms and the pain, but sleep will be your best remedy.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep after today,” Fred muttered, but allowed himself to be herded to a seat, and downed two large doses of potion. The wounded and dead continued to borne into the room.

Ernie Macmillan was dead, cut clean in two by a spell, and Hannah Abbott met the same fate. Anthony Goldstein lay on a cot beside Hermione: he’d lost a leg and had a chunk taken from his side. He’d be at St. Mungo’s if it wasn’t considered too dangerous to move him. A lime-robed healer had arrived a quarter of an hour ago, tending to the more serious injuries whilst Poppy dealt with the broken bones and cuts and myriad smaller injuries. Severus, in the presence of the healer, kept to handing out potions for the most part.

Tonks stumbled in a short while later, her hair dull dishwater blonde and her face waxen with blood loss, using her wand to levitate a hulking form before her, covered with a cloak. “Mad-eye’s dead,” she whispered before collapsing into tears in Lupin’s arms. “He… he took down four Death Eaters at once, protecting me…”

Lupin held her tightly, as she sobbed. After a few moments, he called for Madam Pomfrey. “She’s bleeding,” he said. “I don’t know where from… Dora, where are you hurt, love?”

Tonks burrowed her head closer into Lupin’s chest. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” she muttered.

“You need to be healed,” Lupin insisted gently.

Tonk’s hair was changing colour, chameleon-like, to match the hue of Lupin’s dull brown robes. “I’m not injured,” she informed Lupin’s chest. “I am… I was… pregnant. That’s why Mad-eye took the fight for me… he wanted to protect me…”

“Dora…” Lupin whispered softly, cradling her close. Madam Pomfrey conjured a screen around them, hiding them from the prying eyes of the others in the hall.

Someone arrived with Justin Finch-Fletchy’s head: no- one had yet been able to find the other parts of him. Morag MacDougal, too, was sent home to her parents without all the parts usually comprising a body: her internal organs had been splayed across the ground. Harriet tried to go out, to help, but an unknown auror stepped in front of her. “Leave this to the professionals, Miss Potter,” he said firmly. “It’s not pretty.”

“I’m not squeamish,” she countered. 

“You also don’t have experience of trying to piece together bodies,” he retorted. “Stay here.”

The dead mounted. Imogen began a list, adding to the names as soon as someone was identified. Hamish Leeson. Susan Bones. Mandy Brocklehurst. Draco rocked in grief over Hamish’s body: he’d tried to save him, tried to heal him in the sixth floor corridor where they’d been attacked, but he’d been too inexperienced to repair the damage caused. By the time someone quietly announced that they’d found Dean Thomas, Harriet gave up and retreated to Robin’s arms. He sat quietly, holding her close, but not speaking, as he watched the comings and goings. Idly, he twirled a strand of her hair around his finger and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “This is awful,” she muttered. “How are so many people dead?”

“That’s war,” Robin murmured. “You must have seen the war memorials- there’s one in almost every village across the country, just filled with the names of the soldiers.”

“Yeah, but those weren’t people I  _ knew _ ,” Harriet sighed. She looked over at Seamus, being healed and bandaged by Madam Pomfrey. He hadn’t been badly injured, and had waited this long for attention. He looked shell-shocked: then again, that was how they all felt. 

Someone had wrapped Molly in a blanket, a cup of tea nestled in her hands. Bill sat beside her on the floor with his long legs stretched out before him and a vacant expression on his face. Fred had finally been dosed with dreamless sleep, and George lay precariously on his cot, pressed close to his side, his head tucked into the crook of his twin’s neck, and arm flung over him protectively. It looked more like they were lovers than siblings. Harriet had often wondered what it would have been like to have a brother or sister growing up, to have someone to share the awfulness of her early life with… now she tried to imagine having a twin, another half of herself. 

Robin started her out of her musings, jerking into an upright position rather than the slouch he’d adopted, hunching protectively over her. “Oliver!” he cried. 

He urged Harriet off his lap and stood. “I thought you’d have gone home!”

Oliver shook off the censorious hand of his auror guardian. “And tell my sister I’d lost her best friend?” he retorted. “Not bloody likely. How one earth did you even make it up here?”

“Aberforth knew a way in after all,” Robin replied, crossing the hall.

“So,” Severus said, rising from his spot beside Hermione’s bed, “It’s you I have to blame for bringing my son into this, Oliver Deacon?” He glowered down at the young man.

Oliver visibly gulped. He looked as though he expected a detention or points removed at any moment. “With respect, Professor, he was determined to find his way anyway. I stopped him flooing into a nest of Death Eaters in the middle of the Three Broomsticks.”

Severus grunted, but turned away. An auror called after him. “Will you vouch for the young’un, Professor Snape?” he asked. “Only we found him wandering the castle grounds. He’s no’ marked, but…”

“You’ll find three Death Eater bodies with my magic on them,” Oliver snapped. “I’m on your side, idiot!”

Severus looked to Robin, with a raised eyebrow. “He’s not a Death Eater,” Robin said. “I’m sure of it.”

“And who are you anyway, lad?” the auror asked archly. 

“Robin Brandon,” Robin said, although it wasn’t as if the name would mean anything to the auror. 

“Brandon’s not a name I know. Muggle-born?”

“Squib,” Robin shot back harshly. “What’s it to you?” Harriet squeezed his arm in warning, but all he did was take her hand in his.

“He is my son,” Severus informed the auror smoothly. “It is he that you have to thank for the death of the Dark Lord: it was only his means that could penetrate the shield around the Lord.”

“What shield?” Robin asked, confused.

“There was an anti-magic shield around Voldemort,” Harriet said quietly. “It’s why none of us could do anything. We tried, but…”

“But muggle technology was better than magic for once,” Robin finished wryly. “The beautiful irony.”

The auror raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “And what, exactly, were your methods?” he wanted to know.

“A hunting rifle,” Robin replied. “Three shots, though I’m reasonably sure that the first was a clean shot to the head, so the others are a secondary concern, really.”

Oliver, no longer the centre of attention, had slunk off to the side. The auror had Robin in a firm gaze. Robin stared back, defiant. “The body is still under examination,” the auror informed them stiffly before turning away. 

Robin breathed a sigh of relief: his heart had been beating hard, blood thumping in his ears. For some reason, the hard gaze of the auror had made him feel like a criminal, not as if he’d just done away with the scourge of the wizarding world. He turned to wrap his arms around Harriet, taking comfort from the aliveness of her body amongst all this death. He rested his chin atop her head. “I couldn’t live without you, kitten,” he told her in a low whisper, the breath of his quiet words stirring her hair. 

“Robin Brandon?” a voice asked from behind him. He released Harriet to turn. 

“Yes?”

“You say that you slew He-who-must-not-be-named with a muggle weapon?” The man who asked was tall, with mediterranean colouring, and a crimson band around the cuffs of his auror’s robes that said that he commanded a unit.

“Yes.”

“Where is this weapon?”

“Up there,” Robin said, gesturing to his rifle, lying atop its case. For some reason, he hadn’t been able to bear putting it away, feeling still that it might be needed. 

The auror was quick to cross over, picking up the sleek gun in clumsy hands, peering into the barrel. “You idiot!” Robin exploded, snatching it from his hands. “You didn’t know it wasn’t loaded! You could have blown your brains out!”

The commander looked less than impressed. “I am placing you under arrest for the serious misuse of a muggle artifact,” he declared, ropes shooting out of his wand as he spoke to truss Robin. 

“Misuse!” Robin cried, thrashing against the bonds. “I didn’t misuse it, I used it for its intended purpose!”

Harriet’s hands slipped against the spell-knots she attempted to undo. She was thrown backwards by the force of a spell. “That’s for the Wizengamot to decide,” the auror said darkly. “Professor Snape, unless you wish to be arrested also, step back. You are on shaky ground as it is, given your Death Eater connections.” He stepped forward, pulling something from his pocket and forcing it into Robin’s bound hands. “ _ Portus activus _ .”

The two men vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really horrible for doing that to Arthur... everyone else I could cope with, but Arthur... he just feels so innocent!


	87. Breaking the law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so many awesome reviews on the last chapter- thank you all! The ministry is certainly not experiencing it's finest moment, and are clearly as idiotic as ever! I'm surprised that no-one's been after me with a pitchfork for what I did to Arthur though...

It felt strange, reaching for the floo powder on her mantle: strange, because it was so normal. She’d done this a hundred times, more, probably, but now everything was different. Everything should feel different. The task that had been hers all her life… suddenly, there was no more Voldemort. No more prophecy to fulfill, and it hadn’t even been her who’d killed Voldemort. If she’d thought that it was odd not having the prophecy necessarily referring to her when she became a girl, this was by far the more bizarre sensation. Shaking her head at her own confusion, she flung the powder into the hearth and called out “Severus’ living room,” before stepping into the emerald flames.

Nothing happened: no swirling, no uncomfortable sooty disorientation, but also no new room… she was left standing bent in her own fireplace feeling like an idiot. She climbed out the fire as the flames started to turn yellowish again. What had gone wrong? She tried again, with the same result. Feeling a little sick with worry- had Severus blocked the floo?- she left her room and wended her way down to the dungeons. Either he didn’t want to see her… or there was something wrong. What could possibly be happening to keep her out of Severus’ quarters? Had they sealed themselves against her? Against everyone? Why would that even happen? She felt a little bit sick as she set out.

She kept her wand out: the aurors had done a sweep of the castle and declared it free of Death Eaters, but she wasn’t taking any chances. It would be beyond embarrassing to get through a battle where so many had lost their lives only to be caught unawares by a stray Death Eater.

The dragon guardian to Severus’ chambers slid aside to let her pass, but the door was locked. She hammered her fist on it, willing Severus to open it, willing everything to be okay... “Well, there’s no need for that,” a familiar voice said smoothly behind her. She flinched anyway. Draco reached past her to lay his hand flat on the door, then turned the handle.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

Draco shrugged a shoulder. “You could have done it too,” he said. “At least, if I know Severus, you could have… he’ll have set his wards to allow you, all you need to do is let them recognise you.” He stepped back, gesturing for her to precede him into the room.

“Well, I didn’t know that,” she grumbled. She could see now why she couldn’t get through the floo: Severus knelt before the fire, green flames licking in a wreath around his head. He wouldn’t have been able to hear the knocking, either.

Hermione was laid on the sofa, covered with a light blanket. Severus had refused to let her be taken to St. Mungo’s- the healer, too, had agreed, that all that could be done for her had been done. It was a case of waiting to see. Severus had carried her from the hall in his arms rather than levitating her sleeping body. Harriet peered at her friend.

She squeaked when Hermione opened her eyes. “Hermione!” she exclaimed. “You’re… are you… okay?”

“I think so,” Hermione said sleepily. “I… what happened? The last I remember is Severus stabbing me with a needle, then I woke up here… is the battle still going on?”

Harriet bit her lip and shook her head. “We… we won,” she whispered, though it didn’t really feel like a victory. How could anything be a victory when so many people had died? “Voldemort’s dead.”

Hermione was struggling upright. “How! Tell me!” she demanded.

Draco pressed down on her shoulder. “Stay still,” he advised. “You’ll be dizzy and you might faint if you get up too soon.”

Hermione reluctantly subsided. “So?” she pressed. Harriet looked at her feet. Where to begin. Hermione was too impatient to wait though. “What’s wrong? she asked. “Ron! Is Ron alright?”

“Ron’s fine,” Harriet said quietly. It wasn’t exactly the truth- Ron was far from fine in spirit, but, in body he was whole. 

“Just tell her,” Draco said roughly. “Or I will. The worry is not good for her.”

Harriet glanced over at Severus, his head still in the fire. That was some floo call. Why was he engaged in calls when surely, they should be trying to get Robin, get him out of whatever stupid mistake had led to his arrest. She looked back to Hermione. “Arthur Weasley’s dead,” she said flatly. She didn’t want Hermione to hear it from Draco. Draco hadn’t known Mr. Weasley: he didn’t know what it would mean to Hermione. They’d both spent so much time at the Burrow: Arthur had been like a quiet second father to them- never really intruding on their lives, but there, a safe, solid presence, keeping his wide and wonderful family grounded.

What little colour was in Hermione’s face drained. “No…”

Harriet nodded grimly. “Charlie too,” she continued. “And Moody.” And student upon student, but she wasn’t willing to list all the names yet. Awfully, she probably wouldn't remember all the names without Imogen’s list. It felt like they should be burned into her brain, unforgettable, but her mind was encased in pervading, cotton-wool fog. 

“Hermione,” Severus said wearily from behind them. Harriet flinched, not expecting him. “You’re awake. How do you feel?” He did not even acknowledge Harriet and Draco’s presence for the moment. He laid one long, bony hand over the crown of her head as if to make sure that she really was there, even though it must have been him who put her there.

“Like something tried to bite my leg off,” Hermione said softly.

“That is understandable,” Severus intoned. “Draco, fetch a painkilling draught from my stores. Not the willowbark: it will increase bleeding. The electrumatis would be better.” Draco nodded, soaking up the knowledge.

“Severus,” Harriet cut in as Severus dismissed Draco, “what about Robin? Where is he? What are we going to do?”

“I have engaged the services of a lawyer,” Severus said shortly. 

“A lawyer?” Harriet asked, somewhat stupidly. “Why? Can’t we just go and tell them they’re wrong?”

Severus let out a long-suffering breath. “No. It may have escaped your notice, but a lawyer is usually required in situations such as these. My knowledge of the finer points of law is not so good as my knowledge of potions. I cannot adequately defend Robin. Merlin only knows how I shall pay, but I shall find a way.”

Harriet personally didn’t see why a lawyer should be necessary. Surely, there couldn’t be a trial, or anything like that, and she hadn’t had a lawyer when she was pulled up back in fifth year. Then again, her interactions with the ministry hadn’t necessarily been the best, and Dumbledore had spoken for her. “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, nevertheless. “I’ll pay if you need money, there’s enough sitting in my vault at Gringotts.” She still thought it would be easier to march into the ministry and tell them that they’d arrested the killer of the most feared Dark Wizard of their time, and to let him go immediately. Severus apparently didn’t agree with her.

He glared down at her. “I will manage,” he informed her coldly. “He is my son.”

“And he’s my boyfriend!” Harriet replied hotly. “He means something to me too, and if it will help, I’ll empty every knut I have out of my vault!”

Severus sneered. “An admirable intention, but an unnecessary one,” he replied with haughty disdain. Draco returned with the requested potion, and Severus uncorked it. “Drink this,” he said to Hermione. “It will dull the pain enough for you to rest whilst I am gone.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said. “Where are you going? What’s going on with Robin- why do you need a lawyer? And which lawyer?”

“It is nothing for you to worry about,” he said with a wave of dismissal.

Harriet was having none of it. If anyone could help with Robin, it was Hermione. She’d be able to make a plan. “Robin killed Voldemort. He shot him, and now he’s been arrested by the ministry.”

“What?” Hermione demanded, struggling to sit up again. This time, It was Severus who pushed her back.

“I will manage this,” he said. “This is not something for you to worry about. It is a misunderstanding, nothing more. You must rest, and not overtax your body.”

“Which solicitor are you using?” Hermione asked distractedly, as if she hadn’t even heard Severus in the first place.

“Julian Faulks,” Severus admitted. “He’s expensive, but he’s also the best. Most others wouldn’t touch a case like this with a ten-foot-wand in any case. A squib? They’re not interested. They’d as soon defend a muggle.”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah,” she agreed. “He’s the best… You’re going now? I should come… After all, if I’m going into law, what better opportunity for me to learn…”

Severus objected most strongly, and Harriet presumed that the matter would be closed, as subservient as Hermione was around Severus. She underestimated Hermione’s determination, though, and half an hour later, she found herself hanging back behind Severus as he curtly informed the receptionist of his appointment. Hermione, too weak to walk, was carried in his arms. He’d tried to talk her out of it, but there was no way she’d been willing to let potential work experience pass her by. The arguing was taking too long, and Severus just wanted to be on his way. He almost vibrated with nervous tension.

“This way, Professor,” the receptionist said. She looked young enough that he may have taught her, but he had no particular memory of her. She held open a door off the wood-panelled outer office. “Mr. Faulks, Professor Snape to see you,” she said softly. 

Julian Faulks, a wizard of perhaps seventy, stood from behind a vast desk, piled with parchment and trinkets- glass paperweights, odd little instruments, though nothing like Dumbledore’s desk had been. Harriet looked around uncertainly. One wall contained no less than two fireplaces, both large enough for floo travel, and another was full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, crammed with bound volumes and heavy boxes, each meticulously labelled. There was even a sliding ladder, reminiscent of the Hogwarts Library.

“Professor, greetings,” Faulks said. He looked curiously at the girls. “And who are your companions?”

“I’m Hermione Granger, Sir,” Hermione said primly, quite as if she was immaculately dressed and standing before him on her first day of work, not in hastily spell-repaired clothes and being carried. “I shall be training with your firm from August.”

“Indeed,” Faulks said, a small frown pulling between his eyes. “And you are here now because…?”

“Miss Granger would not hear of being left out of a chance to see how the legal system worked,” Severus said with a sigh. “She was also injured just this morning, and as yet, cannot walk unaided. If I may…” He nodded towards a chair.

“Oh, oh yes, of course,” Faulks said. “By all means, sit down.” He turned his attention to Harriet.

“Harriet Potter,” she said, deciding to take Hermione’s approach. “You may forward all your bills to the Gringotts goblins overseeing the Potter accounts.”

“Harriet,” Severus replied warningly, but she shook her head. She had no idea how much a lawyer cost, but she was pretty sure the Potter accounts would cover it. Severus could pay her back later if he insisted. She wanted to do something, anything for Robin, and if Severus thought that this was the best plan, it was worth a try. She was sure that she and Ron and Hermione probably could have come up with something better, given some time. Perhaps flying a thestral through the ministry to fetch Robin… Or a dragon. No one would get in the way of a dragon.

Faulks was already nodding. “Very well, very well. I oversaw your late father’s affairs, of course, and the reading of your parent’s wills… a very unusual pair of documents indeed…”

“Why were they odd?” Harriet asked, sitting in the chair Faulks pulled out for her.

“If I may interject,” Severus said with his usual sarcasm, “perhaps we could dispense with the niceties and return instead to the matter at hand?”

Fulks bustled back around the desk. “Yes, yes, of course… now, you said that your son was arrested for misuse of a muggle artefact…” He seated himself in a large leather chair and pulled parchment and quill towards him. “Now, shall we begin with his name…”

“Robin Christopher Brandon,” Severus said with thinly veiled frustration. His knee twitched, his fingers drumming against it. His robes were dusty, a patch of mud bloomed near the hem from where he’d been thrown to the ground. He hadn’t had the inclination to waste time with something so mundane as changing clothes when Robin was alone, somewhere, in an unfamiliar world. For all he knew his son was grown, he could not shake the image of a small Robin, about five or six, cowering in the corner of a prison cell. He did not miss the slight shock that lifted Faulk’s bushy eyebrows at the name- doubtless, he’d expected Snape as a last name.

“And the artefact in question?” Faulks asked, his quill tracing Robin’s name atop the parchment. Harriet felt a little sick seeing it there- it made it all seem more real.

“A hunting rifle,” Severus said. “He used it to shoot dead the Dark Lord, as was.”

A delicate clatter sounded: ink splattered across the creamy parchment. Faulk’s quill, with its scrolled silver nib, lay fallen across his paper. “I could have sworn you just told me that He-who-must-be-named is  _ dead _ ,” Faulks said. “But that… surely not… is it  _ true _ ?”

“He died this morning. The body is in the custody of the aurors, as, may I remind you, is my son.”

Faulks, wide eyed and clearly bursting with questions, picked up his quill with shaking fingers. He fished his wand from his sleeve and siphoned up the splatter of ink. “I was under the impression,” he said, carefully modulating his voice, “that you were a known supporter of He-who-must-not-be-named?” The unasked question hung in the air: why would the son of a Death Eater be responsible for the death of his father’s master?

Severus ground his teeth in frustration. This was not getting Robin safe! “I have acted as spy for Albus Dumbledore the last eighteen years,” he ground out in rapid staccato. With quick, impatient fingers, he unbuttoned the cuff of the left arm of his robes, rolling the heavy fabric up to brandish the angry red hollow left after he’d removed the Dark Mark. “I extricated myself completely from the Dark Lord’s camp not so very long ago. As you can see, I no longer bear his brand. His Death Eaters are being corralled by aurors as we speak; the mere fact that I was not arrested, and able to leave the castle should be enough proof for you that I am quite cleared of any wrongdoing.”

Faulks cleared his throat nervously. “Yes, yes… so, the rifle.... a muggle weapon, is it not?”

Severus inclined his head with a snort. 

“Why, may I ask, was it in your son’s possession?”

“It belongs to him. He makes a hobby of hunting.”

“An unusual pastime for a wizard,” Faulks noted with an almost disinterested air, leaning back in his chair. He kept a grip on his wand. His eyes kept flickering over to Harriet. She resisted the urge to glare at him. He was supposed to be helping Robin. She shouldn’t antagonise him.

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Did I neglect to mention that Robin is a squib?” he asked. “He has no magic.” Somehow, Harriet thought that the fact may have ‘conveniently’ slipped Severus’ mind- after all, hadn’t he said that most lawyers wouldn’t be interested in a squib. Perhaps he’d feared that Faulks would refuse to see him if it was mentioned?

“That’s not quite true,” Hermione said softly. Severus turned his head to glare at her. She wasn’t cowed. “No, I’m sorry Professor, but how do you expect Mr. Faulks to fight your case if he does not know the truth?”

“The young Miss Granger is quite correct,” Faulks said, his voice still holding a hint of a tremor. “If there is any chance that the lad could have bewitched the weapon, then it could very well be that the charge is upheld…” He tapped the end of his quill against his chin, deep in thought.

Severus stood with something approximating a growl. “The damned rifle is charmed,” he said. “But it wasn’t Robin who did it. He manifested at fifteen, though I didn’t know it then, but he possesses no wand, no way to magic anything. He has only very occasional uncontrolled bursts in times of high stress. There is no chance of him having the control to cast charms.”

“I advise you to be very careful what you tell me here… for if there is misuse of a muggle artefact, I cannot swear otherwise before the wizengamot.”

“It was not misuse!” Severus growled, whirling from the window in a swirl of dusty robes. “I charmed it, but I did not change or augment its purpose and power. They are charms for cleaning, for protection of the rifle, and of Robin when he is hunting- guarding against trips and falls and the like. “

“No charms to increase accuracy?” Faulks confirmed, his quill hovering ready over the parchment. The drop of ink collected at the nib, but did not fall. 

Severus shook his head, still not deigning to look at them. “Nothing like that. I would not cheapen his achievements so. Robin needs no such help. I don’t know much of hunting, but I’ve seen him shooting at moving targets… he doesn’t often miss.”

Faulks nodded gently, as if thinking to himself. “So long as there is no intent to change the nature of the thing, then no crime is done. Charms such as your describe should not constitute changing the nature. They would pose no harm to a muggle, especially not considering the nature of the weapon itself… after all, I believe they are quite deadly things, guns… most unpleasant… there was that muggle school massacre not so long ago. A terrible business that…” He looked thoughtful. “The authorities may not like the presence of such a weapon in our own school, given that the disaster at Dunblane was only a year past. Magical children are so precious, you know…”

“There were almost no students present!” Severus cried out.

At the same moment, Harriet interjected. “It was a damned battlefield!”

Faulks held up his hands in surrender. “I am just making a point,” he said. “The same point that may be made by the Wizengamot…”

Severus grasped the back of the chair he had occupied, his knuckles pale with the strain. “My son, a squib, raised in the muggle world, is currently at the mercy of the Ministry of Magic with no representation. I don’t care how you get him out, man, just do it!”

Faulks, somewhat wide-eyed, nodded slowly. “I think it best if I seek information from the department of magical justice,” he allowed. “Until I know their plans, I cannot proceed further. I shall endeavour to meet with your son, too, and ensure that he is being treated with decency. I will contact you to obtain further information or share my findings as necessary.”

“I’m coming with you,” Severus said decisively. “Harriet, take Hermione back to Hogwarts.”

“No!” Hermione cried. “I want to see what happens!”

Severus braced his hands on the arms of her chair. His tone brooked no argument. “You are injured. You will return home and rest.”

The clearing of Faulk’s throat was delicate. “Perhaps, Professor,” he said, “it would be best for all of you to return. I shall send word as soon as I have news.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “Do you have children, Mr. Faulks?” he asked.

“Well… that is… my wife and I have not been blessed…”

“Then do not presume to tell me to leave my child in a cell,” Severus informed the blustering man. “As you said, children are precious, and remain so even when they are grown.”

“I cannot promise that you will be allowed to visit him,” Faulks warned. “Your history as a Death Eater… there will be suspicion, you see.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about suspicion,” Severus growled, the muggleism slipping from his tongue surprisingly easily. He bent over Hermione again. “You are to go back to the castle with Harriet. She will put you into bed, and in bed you will stay,” he said. “I mean it, Hermione. This little jolly outing has gone on too long.”

“I want to see Robin too!” Harriet interjected.

Severus turned to face her, pulling up to his full height and looming over her. “Go home, Harriet,” he hissed, his patience coming to an end. “Comfort your grieving friends, and leave Robin to me.”

“But…”

“Harriet!” Severus snapped. “I do not have the time for this ridiculous drivel! You will return to Hogwarts. You will make sure Hermione is in bed, and then you will  _ stay put _ . You will not attempt any harebrained heroic scheme to get to Robin. You will not leave the castle, you will not instruct anyone else to leave the castle on your behalf, and that includes house elves. Is that understood?”

Harriet grumbled indistinctly. “I know you, Harriet,” Severus growled. “I know what you are likely to do. I have no desire to spend my time worrying about you as well as Robin. Any ridiculous games will only lead to danger, and possibly even to your own arrest. That would help no-one, least of all Robin.”

“Fine,” she grumped. She was disgruntled that he’d thought of sending a house elf to Robin before she had- it was a good idea, assuming house elves could get into prisons. “Wait,” she said, just as Severus stepped back. “Robin… he’s not in Azkaban, is he?” In a detached way, she wondered if squibs could see dementors. Mrs. Figg had said she could, but no one actually seemed to believe her.

“No, child,” Faulks said kindly. He had no idea why Harriet Potter cared so much about this squib, but she clearly did. “Prisoners are rarely placed in Azkaban without a trial, and it would have to be a serious breach indeed of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts act to result in a lengthy sentence in any case. Most likely, he is in the holding cells of the Ministry. If it is as you say and He-who-must-not-be-named is indeed dead and his followers being rounded up, then those cells may be quickly filling.”

“So… then what?” Harriet asked. “If there’s no room in prison, they have to let him go, right?”

Severus rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but Faulks smiled indulgently. “There are a few things that might happen, but, for now, I really must see what information I can gather from the ministry. You should do as you are told by the Professor. My secretary will see you safely through the floo.”

“You’ll have to levitate Hermione,” Severus instructed. “She still won’t be able to walk alone.”

“I can!” Hermione insisted, pushing herself out of the chair with her arms. She cried out when she tried to place weight on her injured leg.

“You see?” Severus asked with acerbic attitude. “Unless you wish to hop, you will be levitated.”

“I’ll hop,” she told him with a glare. The tilt of his head, the frown, told her that she’d probably be punished for this bout of uncooperativeness later, but she was damned if she’d let her future employer see her levitated from his office like an invalid. She wrapped one arm around Harriet’s shoulders for support. “Come on,” she said to her friend as she leaned heavily against her. “Clearly, we’re not wanted here.”

  
  



	88. Waiting

Harriet had paced the floor for what felt like an age after they got back. Hermione was on the sofa again, and it didn’t take much time for her to fall asleep again, despite her protestations to the contrary. Harriet supposed the injury, the healing and the painkilling potions were just too much for her.

Even Harriet’s overwrought nerves could not take the constant pacing. Eventually, she fetched a cushion from Robin’s room. His birds still wended their way around his room, and it felt wrong, that they should continue on. It felt wrong that his bed was there, house-elf-neat, that his books still lined up on the shelves. She shook her head. She was thinking as if he was dead! This was ridiculous! People certainly didn’t get executed for the misuse of muggle objects. People didn’t go to Azkaban for the likes of that- did they? Dragging her cushion behind her, she scurried back out to Severus’ living room and shook Hermione. “Hermione! ‘Mione, wake up!”

Hermione started awake. “What is it?” she demanded. “Is Severus back?”

Harriet shook her head. “No,” she replied. “‘Mione, what is the punishment for misusing muggle artefacts?”

“Erm,” Hermione groaned, subsiding back onto the arm of the sofa and blinking, “well, it depends. From my reading, I’d say that the prosecution is usually for the actual damage caused by the misuse, not the misuse itself.”

“But Robin didn’t do anything wrong!” Harriet cried. “There was no damage!”

“Well, from what Severus said, there was no actual misuse anyway. But he did kill a wizard,” Hermione pointed out. “I’d call that damage.”

“Yeah, Voldemort! He should be getting an Order of Merlin, not arrested!”

“I think they’re scared, Harriet,” Hermione said after a pause. “If V...voldemort really is dead, then it means that a muggle weapon was stronger than a wizard one. And how do you think the pureblood contingent are going to like that? They say that muggles are pretty much a lower life form- to find out that muggle technology can kill the most feared wizard of our time?”

Hermione was right, Harriet realised. She swore, then sat down hard on the cushion, the impact jarring up her spine. “He’s going to Azkaban, isn’t he?” she asked morosely. “That’s why Severus is so worried…”

“Mr. Faulks is one of the best wizarding lawyers there is, Harriet,” Hermione soothed. “I’m sure he’ll sort it all out. After all, as you said, if it had been anyone else, if someone had killed him with a spell, they’d be getting an Order of Merlin.” She looked thoughtful. “Maybe it can even be a good thing for squib rights, for muggle rights… seeing that muggle technology is a match for magic might make people take muggles a bit more seriously.”

Harriet just rested her head on her knees. Robin couldn’t go to Azkaban, he couldn’t! She couldn’t let it happen. “Dobby,” she cried hoarsely. “Dobby, come here!”

The crack of house elf apparition sounded uncomfortably close to her ear, and she flinched. “Mistress Harriet called?” Dobby asked. 

“Yeah, Dobby, listen… you can go pretty much anywhere, right? I mean, you can leave Hogwarts grounds?”

“Harriet!” Hermione cut in with a shocked gasp.

Harriet spoke over her. “I need you to find Robin- you know Robin, Professor Snape’s son- and I need you to bring him back here.”

“Harriet, no! You can’t do that! Severus said no!”

Dobby looked between them. “Master Robin has been taken by the Aurors?” he asked uncertainly. 

“Yes! But he didn’t do anything wrong!” Harriet exclaimed. 

“Dobby,” Hermione said sternly, “Don’t do it! Professor Snape expressly forbid Harriet from sending you, or any house elf, or going herself. He is managing it through the proper legal channels.”

Dobby looked between the two girls, blinking his tennis-ball eyes slowly. “Please, Dobby,” Harriet said. “He’ll be alone, and frightened… and he didn’t do anything wrong. He was protecting Professor Snape, protecting me…” She could feel tears welling in her own eyes at the image of Robin huddled in the corner of some dark, dank, drippy cell somewhere. Of course, she had no idea if cells at the ministry were dark or drippy, and it was highly unlikely that Robin had grown a long, unkempt beard in the space of a few hours, or that his hair would be matted and greying. It was a powerful image nevertheless- a cross between Robin and Sirius in the wanted posters just after his escape from Azkaban.

“If Master Snape says that Dobby should not go, Dobby will not go,” the house elf declared eventually, “Dobby is a free elf. Even Mistress Harriet cannot make Dobby do anything he does not want to do.” He quickly popped away before Harriet could do anything, leaving her staring in disbelief at the spot where he’d stood. 

She rounded on Hermione. “Why did you do that?” she screamed. “He would have gone! He’d have gone if you hadn’t told him Severus said not to!”

“Why don’t you think for a moment?” Hermione shot back shrilly. “Do you want your boyfriend to be an outlaw?”

“I don’t want him to be in Azkaban!” Harriet shot back. Her hands were clenched tightly at her side. “He’s innocent! He did nothing wrong! If I’d been the one to kill Voldemort, if it had been Neville, or you, or Severus, they wouldn’t have arrested us! They’d have probably thrown a ball in our honour!”

“It’s probably for the best anyway,” Hermione said flatly. “After all, it’s not as if you two were ever going to be together forever. You should just forget about him. Let what will happen, happen. Move on. It’s not like Harriet Potter, golden child, was ever going to marry a squib anyway.”

That was when Harriet lost it and launched herself at Hermione with a strangled cry. She didn’t even notice the sharp thud of a door closing suddenly somewhere behind her, but she noticed the strong arms bodily lifting her away from Hermione, and suddenly, she was dangling with her feet an inch above the ground, held in a vice grip. “Oh, no, Princess. Severus won’t thank you for breaking his toy,” Draco said softly. “She’s been hurt enough already today.”

Harriet let out another screech, writing to try to get out his arms, all thoughts of magic thankfully forgotten in her fury at Hermione. Draco just held her, wincing a little as she kicked at his shins. “I think you upset her,” he informed Hermione.

“Where on earth did you come from?” Hermione demanded. “Were you spying on us?”

Draco raised his silvery eyebrows in mock surprise. “Me, spying?” he asked innocently. “You wound me. No. I was in Severus’ lab, sorting the potions which were moved up to the hall back onto the shelves. I could hardly fail to hear your little argument.”

Harriet’s screeching warcries were subsiding, replaced by wracking sobs. Carefully, Draco set her down, but luckily kept his arms around her as she crumpled. He turned the sobbing, snotty mass around to face him, supporting her as she buried her streaked, blotched face into his shirt. Like her, he had managed to change his clothes since the battle, and she breathed in the freshly laundered scent of the crisp cotton. Being held by Draco wasn’t so nice as being held by Robin- they smelt different, and Draco was hardened, wiry, whereas Robin felt perfect against her, but a hug was a hug. Draco knew from past experience that the best way to get through to a hysterical Harriet was physical contact. He wondered if there had been some lack of affection in her childhood that it comforted her so. “I don’t think antagonising her is a good idea when you’re pretty much helpless,” Draco informed Hermione. “She could have really hurt you.”

“I’m a witch,” she sniffed. “I could have managed.”

“Really?” he asked with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I didn’t see you reaching for your wand.”

“Oh, shut up, you pureblooded prick!” she declared over Harriet’s slightly muffled sobs.

“Goodness me,” Draco said, petting Harriet’s hair softly to quiet her, “There’s just no pleasing you. You hate the squibs and the purebloods alike.”

“I have no problem with squibs,” Hermione hissed. “I just think Harriet needs to face facts. The chances of a witch and a squib making a life together? Rubbish. He’ll be jealous of her, and she’ll get bored of him, be annoyed at his helplessness.”

“Perhaps,” Draco said. He hated to agree with Granger on anything, but on this occasion, he privately did. Not that he’d admit it to her face. Personally, he didn’t understand why Severus hadn’t just dumped the kid when he found out he was a squib.

“You’re wrong,” Harriet choked out. “I could never be annoyed because Robin doesn’t have magic. I love him.”

“You barely know him!” Hermione interjected. “A year ago, you had no idea he even existed. You can’t base your future on someone you met, what, nine months ago? It’s a truly idiotic idea!”

“I love him and he loves me!” Harriet retaliated hotly with a halfhearted struggle. “Draco, let me go!”

“Not yet, Princess,” he said softly. “Not when you might try to strangle Severus’ pet again.”

Hermione spluttered at Draco’s epithet, but Harriet was the one who snapped out. “I’m not your princess,” she informed him venomously. 

“So you say,” he said smoothly. “Now, are you going to sit on that chair over there and keep away from Granger? That includes keeping your wand away from her.”

“Not the chair,” Harriet muttered. 

“Pardon?”

“Not the chair,” she repeated, a little louder. “The cushion.”

Draco deposited her on the oversized pillow. “What is it with these cushions?” he asked. “I’ve never seen anything like them in Severus’ quarters before this year.”

“They’re Robin’s,” Harriet explained testily, curling up as if she were a cat. “Robin, who’s currently in  _ prison _ .” She shot a vicious look in Hermione’s direction.

Hermione huffed. “It’s not my fault he shot someone. Guns are barbaric.”

Draco nodded sagely. “Indeed. They are messy weapons. A spell is so much cleaner, more refined. Muggles are so very primitive.”

“Hey!” Hermione countered. “That’s rich! Muggles put a man on the moon- I don’t see wizards doing that!”

The two were so engrossed in their argument that neither noticed Harriet getting up and creeping off to Robin’s room. She shut the heavy door to shut out the steadily rising voices and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers over her head. The house elves had changed the bed since he last slept here: the sheets smelt of laundry soap and lavender, the same as all Hogwarts sheets. Fighting her way out of the bed, she went to his wardrobe. There wasn’t much there- a few t-shirts folded in the drawers, but they were clean too. A pair of jeans, some socks and underwear. There was a black hooded sweatshirt hanging in the wardrobe though, and it hadn’t been washed since he wore it. She carried it back to the bed with her, burying her face into it. 

She didn’t think she would sleep: she didn’t think she could. She had seemed to see the melee of battle everywhere as if she was still living it. At the same time, it didn’t seem possible that it had been just that morning- all the bloodshed, the deaths. But she couldn’t fight the effects of the sleeplessness of the night before: comforted by being in Robin’s bed, she fell into oblivion. After all, pepperup and adrenaline could only get a person so far before sleep was an utter necessity. 

It was dark when she woke, the fire burnt to the lowest of embers. She sat up, disoriented. Slowly, her eyes began to adjust. Shapes began to emerge: the hulking shape of the wardrobe, the odd lumps of the birds roosting on their shelves. The lighter square of the enchanted window came into view: she hadn’t thought to draw the curtains before she’d climbed into the bed. She squirreled about under the covers for her wand and lit the lamp beside the bed, following it up with a  _ tempus _ . Half past four. It would probably be dawn soon. She slipped out of bed with a shiver as her feet hit the floor. With no fire, the stones threw off a chill. 

All was in silence when she pulled the door open. Was Severus back yet? Was Robin back yet? The only light was a faint orange glow from the fire in the living room; there were no voices. Should she check Severus’ bedroom? But what if he was back? What if he was in there with Hermione? He wouldn’t like her intruding on that, and, to be honest, she didn’t want to see it either. She turned to the living room instead. If Hermione was still on the sofa, then he wasn’t back. If she was gone, he probably was. She hoped he was back, but a little hurt that he hadn’t come to see her if her was. She was a little hurt that apparently Draco and Hermione hadn’t bothered to check where she was. She could have gone anywhere. So much had changed, she mused, that she now found it odd not the be cared about. She’d been stuck in a cupboard for her childhood: no one had cared them. She should be used to it. 

She moved slowly in the darkness, not wanting to fall or bump into something and make a fool of herself. She rounded the high back of the sofa, and her heart sank a little: a blanketed lump was curled up there. Severus wasn’t back then. What could possibly be keeping him so long? The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that had flooded back as soon as she’d woken. If Severus was still gone, that was bad, right? Faulks had gone on about Severus being a Death Eater. What if the aurors had thought the same- what if they’d arrested him too? Her heart skipped a beat. What if Faulks never intended to help Robin? Maybe he was just getting Severus. Maybe Faulks was a Death Eater…

Her breath came fast and she felt faint. She gripped the edge of the sofa, letting out fast, panting huffs of air. The world was supposed to get  _ better _ after Voldemort was gone!  Or… maybe he wasn’t gone at all? Maybe there were more horcruxes, maybe they hadn’t got them all? If there were more horcruxes, then Voldemort could come back… She let out a strangled cry of… of something, of every emotion- fear and frustration and sorrow and anger. 

A head rose from the nest of blankets on the sofa. “Harriet?”

Harriet gasped, one hand pressing against her pounding heart. “I thought you were Hermione!” she spluttered. “You shocked me!”

“Sorry,” Draco said, folding the blanket back so he could sit up. “I sent her off to bed, but I didn’t really want to be alone in the Slytherin quarters, so I stayed here.” He gestured to the space beside him, lifting the edge of the blanket. “Do you want to sit?” he asked. “You don’t look very well.”

“Is Severus back?” she asked stiffly.

Draco shook his head. “No, not yet,” he admitted. “Look, I’m sure it’s nothing. He can look after himself. Perhaps he decided to spend the night somewhere else, get away from here.”

It all came tumbling out of Harriet in a rush, all her fears about Robin, about Severus and Voldemort and Faulks. Before she was even three almost nonsensical sentences in, Draco had stood and fetched her, propelling her bodily towards the sofa and pressing her down. He tucked the blanket over her, noting the light shivers running through her. “Harriet, be quiet,” he said. “You’re being ridiculous. Everything will be fine, you don’t need to worry.”

“You’re just saying that!” Harriet insisted. “You don’t know it’s going to be fine!”

Draco patted her hand. “You’re working yourself into hysteria,” he said. “You’ll do yourself damage if you don’t calm down. These aren’t things that you should be worrying about. You’re not Harry Potter anymore. You don’t have to fight- no one will expect it of a woman.” 

Harriet should have been shocked, she should have told him that being a girl or a boy made no difference, but it didn’t seem the most important thing at the moment. “There’s something wrong!” she insisted blindly. “He should be back by now! We have to do something!”

“Harriet, it’s five in the morning. There is nothing we can do. I’m sure he’ll be back in an hour or two anyway.”

Harriet refused to believe that. Her thoughts skipped over trying to send Dobby- there was no way he’d go now Hermione had messed that up. “McGonagall,” she said eventually. “McGonagall might be able to find him…” Surely, the ministry would listen to Professor McGonagall…

“Who is, last I heard, in the severe ailments ward at St. Mungo’s,” Draco pointed out dryly. “They weren’t sure she’d survive the night.”

Harriet let out a groan, screwed her eyes shut. Yet another person to add to the list of those Voldemort had taken away in pursuit of her? She wanted nothing more than to run away, curl up somewhere, hide out in a cave like Sirius had… Sirius. Her heart thudded painfully, and she suddenly wanted to throw things, smash things.

She couldn’t just run away. What if there were more horcruxes? What if Voldemort came back? And even if he was dead, properly dead, she’d be running away from the few good things there were in her life- Ron and Hermione… but more than that now. Now she had Robin, and even Severus. How could she just abscond, leave them all behind, and still be  _ her _ ? Without those people, she was just the child in the cupboard again, meaning nothing to anyone. She didn’t want to be alone again. 

Draco seemed to sense her existential crisis: the pallor of her face, with shudder of her shoulders and the low whimper that escaped her might have been the clue. “We can try Flitwick,” he suggested with a sigh. “Perhaps he’ll know what to do.”

It seemed like the best option, or at least some action until she could figure out something better. Harriet scrambled from beneath the blanket.

“Slow down!” Draco cried. “Not now! It’s far too early to be doing anything. And you look like you slept in your clothes.”

“I did,” she replied. 

Draco let out a deep breath, rubbing at his face and feeling the growth of a day’s stubble. “Fine,” he said. “Just, please, put some shoes on first?”

He thought he was even likely to lose that battle for a moment, but not even someone as stubborn as Harriet could really believe that going traipsing around a draughty castle at five in the morning with no shoes was a terribly good idea. She fetched the shoes she’d abandoned by the side of Robin’s bed. Draco used the opportunity to spell the wrinkles out of his clothes. He thought better of doing the same with Harriet’s: he suspected the backlash wouldn’t be worth it. He followed the determined girl from Severus’ quarters.

For Harriet, the battle had been outside, and she’d probably never look at the lawns that swept down from the castle to the lake in quite the same way again. For Draco, the fight had been here, in the corridors and halls of Hogwarts itself. It wasn’t so bad below ground, where everything was familiar, and he hadn’t fought, but as they climbed up, went through the entrance hall and towards Ravenclaw tower, he could almost feel the weight of phantom Death Eaters pressing in, sense eyes around each shadowy corner. He didn’t like to admit it, but it made him uncomfortable, wandering the castle with only a woman for companionship, and not a very fearsome one at that. No other woman could be as fearsome as his Aunt Bella.

Thinking of Bellatrix only reminded him of his mother. Someone else he’d failed. Someone else he should have been able to save. He had no idea how his mother had actually died, but he knew well enough how Hamish had died, all because Draco hadn’t been able to save him. Some healer he would be, not even able to stop Hamish dying, not able to keep him alive long enough to get him to a real healer.

He blamed his tension for the decidedly girlish scream he gave when a shadow detached itself from an alcove. The shadow sprouted a toothy grin. “Well now, what do we have here?” the toothy shadow asked.

“Kingsley!” Harriet cried. Draco finally realised that it was the auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, dressed in dark colours and melding well into the shadows. “Kingsley, they arrested Robin, and Severus hasn’t come back!”

Draco elbowed Harriet sharply. He’d said Flitwick, not this random auror! “Slow down. What are you talking about?” Kingsley asked, his own diction unhasty. 

“Severus’ son, Robin!” Harriet repeated, the pitch of her voice rising. “You must know! He was arrested by the aurors after he killed Voldemort!”

Kingsley nodded slowly, despite a frown. “The man who fired the shots was Snape’s son?” he confirmed.

“Yes!” 

Draco thought this little reunion had gone on long enough. “Harriet, we should go,” he reminded her.

“You shouldn’t be wandering the castle alone,” Kingsley interjected. “Especially not at this time in the morning. Where are you going?”

“To see Flitwick,” Harriet explained before Draco could say the same. “But we don’t need to now- please, Kingsley, don’t you know what’s happening? You’re an auror.”

Kingsley looked down at her, his face serious. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “There’s an active floo connection in Professor Flitwick’s office- I can use that to contact the ministry.”

The look of relief on Harriet’s face was immediate, and Draco felt a stab of something like jealousy that he’d been so easily replaced as protector. “You’re the Malfoy boy, are you not?” Kingsley asked frostily. “You can go now… I shall see Harriet safely to the Professor.”

“I’m Draco Snape,” Draco replied with all the haughty indignation he could muster, though it still felt alien, wrong, to deny the Malfoy name- what was a Snape in comparison to a Malfoy? Needs must, though. “Severus Snape is my adopted father, his son my adopted brother. I have a right to concern.”

Kingsley didn’t look happy. He pursed his lips. “Come on, then,” he said to the pair. 

He made a very good show of keeping a wary eye on Draco as he spoke to Harriet. “Molly Weasley was looking for you earlier,” he told her. “She’s making funeral arrangements for Arthur and Charlie.”

Guilt flooded Harriet. She had gone to try to help Robin, and been of no use whatsoever, and Mrs. Weasley had been upset. She loved the Weasleys, and she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the world without Mr. Weasley in it, and she hadn’t been there for the surviving Weasleys. She couldn’t do anything right. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I was with Severus.”

Kingsley hummed in acknowledgement. “Why do you care?” he asked curiously. He had known her when she was Harry well enough, from Order meetings, and he’d seen that she seemed friendly with the Snape boy after her kidnap and rescue, but to put Snape, of all people, over her friends? It didn’t sit right with him. Had a change in sex really changed her so much?

Draco didn't think that Harriet would say. Surely, she wouldn’t say? Did she really trust this man so much? Draco knew that he was a part of the Order, but he was also an auror. She proved Draco wrong though. “Robin and I… we’re… that is… he’s my boyfriend.”

Kingsley grunted as response. He didn’t seem shocked; he didn’t seem much of anything. “I wonder,” Draco ventured before the conversation could continue, “if you could tell me what became of Lucius Malfoy?” He’d wondered if his father was dead, imprisoned… Part of him, quite a large part of him, would be happy to see his father dead- he’d killed Draco’s mother, after all. But there was still some part of him that hated to consign his own flesh and blood to death. That, and death was perhaps too good for him.

“Mr. Malfoy was at home throughout the attack,” Kingsley replied evenly. “He did not take part in the battle and maintains that he has renounced support for You-know-who.”

“So… he’s not in prison?” Harriet asked, shocked.

“He is not,” Kingsley replied evenly. He rapped sharply on Flitwick’s office door. “May I use your floo, Professor?” he asked, poking his head around the door. “There’s some concern about Professor Snape’s whereabouts.”

Flitwick waved him to the fireplace without a word. The Charms professor looked washed out and exhausted, completely done in. Harriet wondered if he’d slept at all in the last two nights. Given how grey he was, she doubted it. She stood uncomfortably in the unfamilar office; Draco stood as if he did this every day of his life.

Kingsley’s conversation didn’t take long: he stood, brushing soot from his collar. “The case is in trial,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Harriet asked with a frown.

“It means the Wizengamot is sitting,” Kingsley replied. “They’re in the courtroom, hearing evidence and deciding the outcome. The trial started an hour ago.”

Even Flitwick looked up at that. “They must be worried to sit during the night,” he commented wearily.


	89. Fighting the law

Though he’d never married, Flitwick was, at heart, a romantic, and Harriet’s sorry tale of lovers parted moved him. He’d felt rather sorry for the boy when he’d been arrested in any case- it had seemed a strange action on the part of the ministry. That was what he told himself, and it was true, it really was… but he also couldn’t deny anything in the face of tears, especially not from the girls. They just made his heart bleed, and the wide green eyes of Harriet Potter, beginning to glisten, were too much for him. He didn’t have it in him to deny her.

The Malfoy boy (for so almost everyone still thought of Draco), of course, insisted on going too. He repeated his brotherly concern for Severus’ son- that didn’t truly convince Flitwick, but he thought, he hoped, that perhaps the boy had some good in him, some desire to be of comfort to those around him. Maybe, just maybe, he was more than the spoilt prat he’d shown himself to be through his schooling. Over the years, Flitwick had had more than one sobbing Ravenclaw in his office because of Draco’s vicious antics. If only the boy could keep his rather admirable intellect on his schoolwork instead of thinking up endless taunts and cruel mischief, he could give Hermione Granger a very good run for her money. Whatever Draco’s motivations, though, he found himself going through the floo after Kingsley and before Harriet.

The atrium of the Ministry was busier than Harriet had expected for this time in the morning. She’d expected utter desertion, though, perhaps that was foolish given the events of the day before. The lamps were lit; a few red-robed aurors milled about. A befuddled-looking man in violet robes popped from one of the apparition fireplaces, his round glasses askew on his face and his hair still tucked into a kerchief. “Kerridge!” one of the aurors snapped at him. “How long does it take you to get out of bed, man! There’s a holding cell chock full of bloody Death Eaters, and you have a lie in?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Kerridge muttered, stumbling off towards the lifts. 

“Morning, Lukas,” Kingsley said.

The auror spun. “Kingsley. How’s the school looking?” Lukas asked, eyeing Harriet and Draco suspiciously. His hand was pressed to his side, hidden in the folds of his robes, but it was pretty certain that he held his wand ready.

“Not a peep. We must have found them all,” Kingsley replied with a toothy smile. “We’ve got to get on.” He nodded to Lukas in farewell and hustled Harriet and Draco before him to the lifts. Lukas was left staring after them with a frown pulling his eyebrows together. 

They stood in silence in the lift, empty of even inter-departmental memoes. The smooth woman’s voice announced each floor, but no one joined them. As they sank lower and lower into the bowels of the ministry, Harriet realised where they must be going. “It’s in the old courtrooms, isn’t it?” she asked fearfully.

“Yes,” Kingsley confirmed.

Of course, it had to be in the dungeon courtrooms. They were terrifying: Harriet knew that much from her own sojourn there in the summer between fourth and fifth year. She remembered the chair with iron chains and shuddered. “Courtroom ten?” she almost whispered.

Kingsley looked at her with something approaching sympathy. “No, three. It’s smaller,” he explained. Harriet gave a short nod. Hopefully smaller meant less creepy.

“Why does it matter which courtroom it is?” Draco asked testily.

Harriet looked down at her shoes. “I was tried for underage magic in courtroom ten,” she explained quietly. 

Draco chuckled a bit. “Oh yeah. My fath… erm… someone told me about that. Didn’t you blame a house elf?”

“That was a different time,” Harriet said. “A house elf threw a pudding.”

“I see,” Draco said, though he didn’t see at all, and his tone made it quite clear that she was suffering from madness brought on by lack of sleep or perhaps the battle. 

The lift informed them that they had reached the Department of Mysteries. Harriet’s breath was coming faster. She didn’t know if it was memories, or fear of what was happening, what she would find. When Kingsley’s back was turned, she felt a soft touch on her shoulder. “It will be fine,” Draco advised. “Severus loves that boy: he won’t let the Ministry lock him up.”

Harriet gulped. Severus had kept Robin safe this far… there was no reason to believe he’d fail now- was there? Draco gave her a small shove in the small of her back to send her stumbling after Kingsley. The tall auror stopped at a door up ahead. “Morning, Justin,” he said to the spotty auror drowning in his crimson robes. He reached for the door handle.

“Begging your pardon Mr. Shacklebolt, but court’s in session!” Justin blurted out, immediately going pink. “You can’t go in.”

“Your dedication to your duty is noted,” Kingsley said with a grin. “It’s quite all right. If anyone questions you, you may direct them to me.”

“But, Sir…” 

“Go and have your breakfast, Justin,” Kingsley sighed. “I’ll take over here.”

Justin’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously a few times. Eventually, though, he took Kingsley’s offer, making his way to the Auror headquarters. Kingsley opened the door a smidgen, peeking in. “Go in quietly,” he advised. “Don’t draw attention to yourselves- sit on the benches near the door.”

“You’re not coming?” Harriet asked.

“Got guard duty,” he replied with a grin. “Go on. In with you. You didn’t come to stand outside the door.”

That was true enough, no matter how tight her chest seemed to squeeze her heart. She raised her chin defiantly and slipped in through the door that Kingsley pushed open for her. She crept immediately into a stone bench to her left, Draco following. Her eyes darted, taking in the scene, looking for Robin

He looked oddly small in the heavy, chain-wrapped chair. Her heart skipped a beat when she realised he was manacled to it- but he wasn’t dangerous! How could they do that to him? She tore her eyes away.

A tall man, dressed casually in jeans and a checked shirt was bending over a table, muttering, and all seemed intent on him. No-one seemed to notice their entrance… well, almost no-one. Harriet felt Severus’ dark eyes on her, and, glancing up, saw his deep frown, though he was looking away now. She flicked her own gaze away, in case he looked at her again… she didn’t think she could face that look of fury directly at her at the moment. She looked up instead, so the couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

The ceilings here were as high as in courtroom ten, but the room was small- and the entire Wizengamot were certainly not here. Oddly, the room made her feel claustrophobic, as if someone had dropped her down a deep well and she had no way out. She closed her eyes.

The muttering man spoke up. Harriet realised that he was American. Oddly, she wondered if he knew Jeanine Hargraves, the Ravenclaw seeker who’d tried to play by American rules. Then she realised it was probably ridiculous. She knew it was a big country.  “Well now,” the American drawled. “It’s a basic enough weapon. Old-ish, but not antique. Well cared for- it’s in good working order.”

“But is it dangerous?” a honeyed voice asked. Harriet’s heart sank- Umbridge! And sure enough, there she was, a pink bow perched atop her head and a simpering smile splitting her wide face.

“Dangerous, Ma’am?” the American asked, puzzled. “It’s a deadly weapon. A’course it’s dangerous.”

Umbridge gave a nervous little chuckle. 

Faulks stood: Harriet hadn’t even checked to make sure he was here. “The question, I believe, is not ‘is this item dangerous’, it is, ‘has this item been magically misused’. In your opinion, Mr. Schultz, has there been any magical misuse of this item?”

The American (Mr. Schultz, Harriet corrected herself) raised a shoulder languidly. “Wouldn’t say so,” he replied. “There’s a few cleaning and maintenance charms, same’s I’d put on any gun of mine. Nice little protection charm… not one I’ve seen before.”

A fully robed member of the wizengamot leaned forward. “If you haven’t seen it before, how do you know what it does?” he sneered.

Mr Schultz shrugged again. “Don’t have to know a charm to know what it does,” he said. “It’s similar enough to others I’ve seen, though I’d say it’s more suited to a bladed weapon than a firearm. There’s something there about minimising injury from cuts to the wielder.”

There was muttering amongst the gathered Wizengamot. Faulks crouched before Robin, who was pale faced, his eyes dark pits. His lips moved, but from this distance, Harriet had no hope of hearing what he was saying. Severus shot a glance in the direction of the lawyer and his son, but held himself stiffly to the side. He glared up the stone risers towards Harriet again. Draco leaned over to whisper to her, his mouth so close to her cheek that she could feel the puffs of his words. “Severus looks like he is contemplating killing us. You owe me for this, Potter.”

Harriet made a noncommittal noise low in her throat. Her attention was fixed on Robin. She’d only seen him look this frightened once before- when Severus and Draco had brought her back from Malfoy Manor. Suddenly, he seemed to sense her attention on him, and his eyes flickered away from his knees, his head turning to the side, and he looked at her face on. 

Without even thinking, Harriet stood. She had no idea what she planned, other than to get to Robin. Draco grabbed her wrist, yanking her back down before she could even fully rise. “Idiot!” he hissed. “What part of ‘don’t draw attention to yourself’ did you not understand?”

Harriet dashed angrily at the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. She felt so  _ helpless _ ! No, that was wrong- she felt useless. Helpless had been wandless and naked in Malfoy’s cellars. Now she was here, wand tucked safely in her pocket- arriving with Kingsley, she hadn’t even had to hand it over to have it checked- and yet, she was kept motionless by some kind of legal nonsense! She could have screamed!

She hadn’t escaped notice. “Half of them are looking at you,” Draco warned even as Harriet watched Robin turn back to the sitting Wizengamot as the elderly wizard in the middle rose to speak.  White hair tufted from his ears like so much smoke. “Thank you, Mr. Schultz. That will be all. Mr. Faulks, the Wizengamot is not satisfied as to the  harmlessness of the protection charm mentioned by Mr. Schultz.” He left a dramatic pause as Severus' hands curled into tight fists, frown deepening. Eventually, the elderly wizard continued. “We require another expert.”

Faulks rolled his eyes to the ceiling just as Severus grunted with frustration. “How many experts would you like me to produce?” Faulks asked, forcing his voice level. “There are not so very many wizarding experts on firearms around!” 

“We would be content with a charms expert,” the elderly wizard replied. “Indeed, there is one here… Dolores Umbridge has plenty of experience in protective charms in her work here at the Ministry.”

Harriet gasped, her voice catching in a strangled cry. She watched, horrified, held in place by Draco’s thin arm across her chest, as Umbridge stood, her mouth puckered into a simpering little pout. “Well, I do have some little knowledge…” she allowed graciously. “I was a specialist in the Improper use of Magic office. I’d be most honoured to help, of course…”

“Wait,” Severus said, a hand raised. Faulks glared at him, making shushing motions, but Severus was undeterred. “I do not believe Madam Umbridge to be impartial,” he explained. “I often heard her speak against squibs during her tenure at Hogwarts.”

Umbridge gave a tittering little laugh. “Oh, there is no need to worry, Severus!” she chirped brightly. “I am quite capable of being as impartial as I need to be!”

Something about this little statement seemed to worry Faulks. “One moment,” he said. “I must consult with my client.”

The elderly head of the Wizengamot waved a spotted hand in permission, though he looked to the ceiling as if imploring some higher power to get it over with. Umbridge made a little huff and sat again with a poisonous glare in Robin’s direction. He wasn’t looking at her: his eyes were fixed on the floor. A wizard behind and to the left of the head of the Wizengamot cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “We might hear something from Mr… erm…. Miss Potter? I admit that I am very curious about her presence here.”

“I’d wondered that too.” Rufus Scrimgeour, looking quite bored at one side of the gathered members of the Wizengamot, inspected his nails as he spoke.

“Oh, yes, quite, Minister!” Percy. Of course. Percy Weasley was the sodding scribe to the Wizengamot. He looked over at the minister,a  smug little smile, but Scrimgeour wasn’t even looking in his direction. Harriet wondered why, given everything that had happened, the minister was sitting in a trial for the misuse of a muggle artefact. Surely, he, and the rest of those here, should have something better to do than chasing after a squib?

Draco elbowed her sharply in the ribs. “They want you to say something,” he hissed. Sure enough, there were plenty of expectant faces tilted up towards her. Severus was glaring at her, all the time in whispered conference with Faulks over the top of Robin’s head.

Another sharp jab to her side later, and Harriet hesitantly stood. What on earth should she say? She wasn’t even sure why she’d come now- it all seemed a bit silly. She was just some schoolkid to these people! “I… erm… I’m a friend of Robin’s,” she said lamely. “And… and this is so ridiculous! Why are you accusing him of breaking the law, why do you have him chained up when you should be dealing with Death Eaters?” She paused, but no-one moved. “Erm,” she continued eruditely.

She was rescued by a slam of the door that made her jump, and a scuffle as Kingsley bodily restrained a young man. “I said, you can’t go in!” Kingsley informed his squirming armful. 

“Am I too late?” the intruder demanded, trying to break free of Kingsley’s grasp.

“Auror Shacklebolt!” the Minister cried. “What is the meaning of this?”

Everyone was looking, everyone watching this newest intruder. A spark of recognition flared in Harriet’s brain. She knew him! Oliver wasn’t deterred by the Minister. “How can you continue with this farce of a trial?” Oliver called out. “He killed You-know-who and you’re actually trying him for a crime? I can’t believe that any of you can allow this!”

“Deacon, stop this!” Kingsley reprimanded quietly. “It’s not worth your job!”

“It is, though!” Oliver retorted, loudly enough that his voice echoed through the courtroom, that even Robin looked up, that Faulks and Severus fell silent. “Because what’s the point if we’ve just swapped the fear of You-know-who for the fear of the Ministry, who could arrest any one of us and set up some kind of kangaroo court? What’s the point in just bowing down to another dictatorship, a dictatorship that we can’t trust, that tries a squib for a magical crime? I can’t say I have much time for squibs- they’re defects of magic, and not worth the time. I don’t even like Robin Brandon, but by God, I’ll give him his due- he did something that Wizards have been trying to do for decades, and you punish him for it? If this is the justice the Ministry metes out, I don’t want any part of it!”

He panted into the stunned silence, still held in place by Kingsley, but neither party actively fighting each other any more. After a few beats of silence, the Minister, who’d finally stopped fidgeting and sighing, spoke. “And you are?” he asked. 

“Oliver Deacon. I’m with the Obliviators,” Oliver replied. 

Scrimgeour raised one bushy eyebrow. “Can anyone vouch for that?” he asked the room at large. 

“I can, Minister,” Kingsley replied. “I’ve worked with him when he was a trainee. He was under Grimes and McNamara.”

“Are you any good at Charms, Mr. Deacon?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Minister?”

Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow. “I’d like you identify a charm on an object. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I… I can try, Minister?”

“Good lad.” Scrimgeour said. Kingsley finally, reluctantly, released his hold on Oliver “Will an impartial tester keep you happy, Snape?” the Minister asked

“He’s not an expert!” Faulks riposted. 

“Obliviators require a solid understanding of charms,” Scrimgeour pointed out. “If he trained under McNamara, he’s good. Let’s see what the lad has to say. If he can’t do it, we’ll find someone else. Come down here, Deacon, and give us your opinion on the charms on this here weapon.” 

Slowly, Oliver began down the steps. “You okay, Brandon?” he asked roughly as he drew level with Robin.

Robin’s voice was quiet, scratching in his throat. “Yeah,” he replied hoarsely.

Oliver nodded and approached the table holding the gun. He eyed it warily as he pulled out his wand. Carefully, he traced out a circle of shining light around him on the floor, surrounding himself and Robin’s gun. A few of the Wizengamot nodded and hummed their approval. “What’s going on? What is he doing?” Harriet asked.

“Protective circle,” Draco explained shortly. “He’s shielding everyone else in the room in case something goes wrong.” Even he sounded vaguely impressed. “He’s impressing the Wizengamot by worrying about keeping them safe, and by assuming the weapon has dangerous enchantments on it.”

“They think that he’s on their side? After bursting in and making that speech?” A little flicker or fear bloomed in Harriet- was his impassioned entry some kind of set-up? Did he want Robin out of the way, and it had just been a ploy to incriminate him Her head hurt considering it.

Draco, used to politics and power plays from his cradle, didn’t bother explaining it to her. For her, the world was too black and white, good and evil, to comprehend this. She was better now, now that she’d realised that Severus had the capacity to love, and that even Draco himself was more human than she’d ever imagined. Despite that, she still had the binary world view of the warriors of the light. Old habits, Draco supposed, died hard.

Oliver hovered his wand over the length of the gun, like some kind of scanner. After a few minutes, he looked up. He turned to address Robin directly. “Can I touch it?” he asked. “Is it loaded?”

“You may do as you need to with the artefact, Mr. Deacon,” the head of the Wizengamot informed him.

“With respect, Sir, I didn’t ask you,” Oliver replied. “I’d rather not have my fingers blown off, or anyone else’s.”

“It’s empty,” Robin said hoarsely. “The safety’s on too- you can’t fire it accidentally.”

“Thanks,” Oliver said, reaching down to heft the gun in his hands. He ran his fingers all over it, skimming over every inch. He placed it carefully back on the table. “A charm to repel dust, one to protect from water and rust. One more for aesthetics- just a little glamour to give the wood a gleam. One which ties it to the owner- you’d have to have an analysis of Brandon’s magical signature, if he even has one, to make sure it’s linked to him- and that charm’s supposed to prevent the weapon being turned on it’s owner. It was usually used on knives and swords.”

Mr. Schultz had become interested by this point. He crossed to where Oliver stood, and Oliver took down his protections to let the other man through. “Do you know the charm?” the American asked.

Oliver nodded. “Yes. It’s the praesodomini- favoured by knights of old. Some say it was a favourite of Godric Gryffindor’s. I had a bit of an interest in magical weaponry a few years ago.”

“That’s kinda neat…” Mr. Schultz said. “I’ll have to take a look into that one.”

Umbridge was not finished. “Well,” she said, squeezing past her peers, “we do have a magical signature analysis for the accused… if I can just test it….” She levelled her wand at the gun.

There was a bang, a billow of greenish smoke. Gasps, a few screams, and when the smoke cleared, Umbridge drooped back against the benches, one hand over her heart, one fanning at her face. “Oh! Oh!” she squeaked out. “Oh, my nerves!”

“Ma’am! What were you thinking!” Mr. Schultz coughed out.

“Oh! Oh, dear! I was just revealing the magical signature…” Umbridge said breathlessly, “but that vile thing has some kind of destruction charm on it…”

“Ma’am, I was close enough to hear you! That was no revealing spell like I’ve ever seen, in fact, it looked an’ sounded a lot like a  _ destructio _ to me.”

“And me,” Oliver replied, his hair standing comically on end. “Weasely’s Wizard Wheezes have something similar in their products- a toy rat that explodes when touched.”

“It wasn’t me! It was that, that…  _ thing _ !” Umbridge replied, jabbing a finger at the now mangled rifle. 

“Test her wand.”

“What?” the head of the Wizengamot asked dazedly. 

“Test her wand,” Faulks suggested. “ _ Priori Incantatum _ .”

Umbridge gasped. “I am not on trial here,  _ Sir _ !” she replied with venom. 

The Minister looked fed up. “Shacklebolt,” he instructed. “Do it.”

Not even Umbridge could cross the Minister, though she looked like she wished she could. There was a brief tense moment as she pulled back her wand, but, eventually, she let Kingsley take it to cast the spell. 

Green smoke billowed from the end. Scrimgeour sighed. “I grow tired of this. We vote now. No more charms, no more experts.” Whether it was boredom or the desire to stop his employees incriminating themselves further was difficult to say.

“Yes, yes…” the head warlock agreed dazedly. “All who believe Robin Brandon to be guilty of the misuse of a magical artefact?”

Hands raised. Harriet groaned. How could anyone think that? Percy turned to count, the feather of his quill flapping about. Harriet tried to count. Was it half? She didn’t think it was half...

“All those who believe Robin Brandon has committed no crime?”

Hands raised, but voices called out. “No crime?” a diminutive witch on the back row called out. “He’s not guilty of misuse, but murder, that’s different matter!” A few other voices called out in support of her.

“We are not trying for murder!” Faulks called back. “Those were not the charges on arrest!”

“Maybe they should have been! It was a junior auror who made the arrest!”

Scrimgeour slammed a heavy file down onto his desk. “This is ridiculous,” he snarled. “Let the damned squib go free!”

Cacophony erupted. It seemed like everyone in the room had an opinion which must be declared at volume. Robin’s head slumped forward, his eyes closed and his hands clenched tightly, but almost everyone else was on their feet.

“Silence!” Scrimgeour growled, his voice magically amplified and his wand shooting red sparks above his head. 

It took two more repetitions of the command before he obtained at least a modicum of quiet. People still whispered and nudged. “This case is over. I wish to hear no more about it, and this squib may leave the Ministry freely today to return to his home. There will be, in time, a full inquiry into the events at Hogwarts school yesterday morning, but until that time, he is not to be brought before the court on matters relating to those events.” He looked around the shocked courtroom. “Weasley, I want a committee gathered to draft legislation on the trying of squibs for magical crimes. I’ll have a list of potential members on my desk by the end of next week.” He picked up his heavy sheaf of papers and stomped up the stone stairs, Kingsley striding before him to open to door for him. He left stunned silence behind him.

“Will someone unchain my son?” Severus snarled.  

“Do it,” the head of the Wizengamot said weakly, tipping back into his seat and staring at the ceiling.

  
  



	90. Moving on

Harriet was down the stairs before Draco could stop her, pelting headlong into the fray as Robin dazedly stood, rubbing absently at his wrists, where the harsh indentations of the manacles still marked his skin. He looked up in time to catch the headlong rush of Harriet, thought she knocked him back a step, jarring the backs of his knees against the harsh metal of the prisoner’s chair. “Hey, kitten,” he whispered hoarsely. He wrapped an arm slowly around her shoulders, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there. 

Severus’ hand clawed into her shoulder, and Harriet found herself pulled none too gently back. “Idiot boy,” Severus growled and then, despite most of the Wizengamot still lingering, despite every eye being on them, and to the great surprise of almost all who knew him in person or by reputation, Severus Snape showed affection: real, genuine affection. He glared at Robin for a moment then, releasing Harriet’s shoulder, clutched his son to him. “Idiot child,” he repeated, though a bit more fondly this time. Some would even later claim that he brushed away a tear. That idea was rather spoilt by the fact that, after a brief, though tight embrace, Severus pulled pack, grasped Robin by the shoulders and bodily shook him. “I told you to stay away, but you couldn’t, could you? Would a sentence in Azkaban have been worth it?”

“I couldn’t watch you die,” Robin replied. It was the same thing he’d said before, and he’d repeat it whenever his father attempted to berate him for his actions. It was a statement Severus struggled to dispute. He could hardly say he would prefer to be dead- not now, not when the spectre of his spying work was lifted, and he had a chance at something better. Instead he rounded on Harriet.

“I told you to stay away!” he snarled. “Draco, what were you thinking, letting her come here? I credited you with a modicum of common sense.”

“Either I brought her and made her behave herself, or she came and wreaked havoc,” Draco replied nonchalantly. “You must know how impulsive she is.”

Severus grunted. “Come. It is well past time to leave.”

“Wait,” Robin said, looking about frantically. “Oliver… where’s Oliver? I need to thank him…”

“He’s over there,” Harriet replied, nodding to where the young obliviator bent his head to speak to the little witch who’d suggested that Robin should have been arrested on murder charges. As if sensing their eyes and attention, the witch glared at them and marched away. 

Oliver came over with a wan, tired attempt at a smile. “Why?” Robin asked. “Why did you help? You said yourself, you don’t even like me.”

“Because for some reason Carrie thinks that the sun shines out of your arse, and nobody and nothing hurts my baby sister. Her best friend vanishing without trace would upset her.”

“But…”

“Don’t argue, Brandon. Just accept the damned help. And remember it next time I need a favour, yeah? You owe me.”

“Yeah,” Robin responded dazedly. “But… Carrie’s not as weak as you think.”

Oliver smiled. “Carrie’s never had a real hardship in her life, and I’d like to keep it that way,” he responded firmly. “Go home and wash, Brandon. You stink.”

Robin sneered at him, looking every bit a younger Severus in that moment, and, true to years of conditioning in Potions lessons, Oliver cringed and took a step back. With what he’d meant to be a curt nod, but looked more like a nervous flinch, Oliver turned and fled. 

“He’s not that wrong,” Harriet said, ignoring Severus to tuck herself against Robin’s side. She reached up to pet his hair. “Your hair’s kind of… sticky.”

“They didn’t exactly offer me a shower,” Robin said. “I haven’t washed in… ugh, I don’t know. It feels like forever. And you’ve seen the genetic material I have to work with.” He inclined his head in the direction of his father

“Robin,” Severus warned with a withering glare. “I have not had nearly enough sleep to put up with such insolence.”

Robin raised one hand to rub at his temples. “I can't actually argue with you there,” he replied ruefully.

“You wouldn’t want your father to regret helping you, after all,” Faulks said with forced joviality, having just arrived from a discussion with Percy, who trailed the lawyer’s steps.

“That is a ridiculous statement, and most unwelcome,” Severus growled at him. “Are we free to leave?”

“If the accused… errr, Mr. Brandon, could just sign these…” Percy blustered, offering a few sheets of parchment. Robin near snatched them from him, and began to read. Percy looked down at his feet. “Erm, Potter… Harry… erm, et, I… I wanted to ask- the battle… are my family… are they… okay?”

Harriet’s heart jumped. “No-one’s told you?” she asked fearfully.

Percy shook his head. “No. Please, tell me… are they alright?”

She nibbled at her lip. “I’m sorry, Percy,” she said. No matter how much of a prick Percy was, he didn’t deserve this. “Charlie didn’t… that is… he died.”

Percy’s freckles stood out as his face drained. He gripped the back of the prisoner’s chair harshly. “And your dad,” Harriet finished quietly. “Your dad too.”

Percy swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he said eventually. “That is a shame. He could have had an opportunity to progress with drafting legislation on squibs. Would you inform my mother of my most sincere condolences?”

Harriet nodded, a little puzzled. Condolences? Was that the best he had to offer? He seemed more upset at the loss of a person to put on his stupid committee. 

The scratch of a quill indicated that Robin was finished with the documents he’d been handed. Percy took them back, checked them over, and handed one back. “Your copy,” he advised, and walked away stiffly. Harriet stared after him, completely befuddled. She’d just told him his father was dead! Indeed, both Faulks and Robin also looked at Percy’s retreating back, a mixture of confusion and pity evident in both. Draco raised a pale eyebrow. 

“Who was that?” Robin asked, confused.

“Percy Weasley,” Harriet replied, just as befuddled. “He’s… not really on speaking terms with his family.”

Only Severus did not seem to find percy’s behaviour odd. “Come,” he barked. “I wish to leave this place before one of these idiots comes up with another ploy.” He dug his fingers almost painfully into Harriet and Robin’s shoulders, steering them none-too-gently towards the steps and the door. Robin stumbled slightly, his legs not yet working properly after hours of confinement. He shook Severus off. “I can manage,” he said gruffly. 

Severus muttered something that might have been “I doubt that,” but released his grip on Robin anyway. As if to compensate, he focused his attention on Harriet. “I hope you realise that you are very much in trouble, foolish girl. You should not have been here.”

“Draco’s here too!” she protested, trying to deflect some of the wrath.

“I did not specifically tell Draco to stay at the school, though, I admit, I didn’t think I should have to,” Severus countered. Draco smirked at Harriet. Severus didn’t give him time to gloat, though. “How is Fred Weasley?” he shot at Harriet.

“Erm, I dunno?” she said hesitantly. “I haven’t seen him?”

“And what news on Professor McGonagall?”

“I don’t know,” Harriet repeated with a sinking feeling in her chest. It felt like her first even potions lesson all over again. 

“I enquired last night,” Draco offered. “She is being held under spell-support at St. Mungo's. The exertion of the battle caused a massive heart attack.”

Severus said nothing, only ushered his charges into a waiting lift. “Wait!” Robin suddenly cried. “My rifle!”

“Leave it, Robin,” Severus sighed. 

“No! It’s my gun! I need that!”

“Not in that state, you don’t,” Draco muttered under his breath, but Robin didn’t seem to hear. He pushed away his father’s hand to dash back out of the lift and towards the courtroom. Harriet wasn’t sure that she’d want to go back there if she’d been the one to be chained in that seat- in fact, she was pretty sure that she wouldn’t want to. She’d certainly never want to go back into the Malfoy cellars where she’d been chained and… she shuddered. She still couldn’t think of that without her skin crawling, without wanting to run, scream, hurt someone, even if that someone was her. At least Robin hadn’t been subjected to…  _ that _ . She couldn’t even say the word inside her own head. 

Severus closed his eyes, looking exhausted. “Stay here,” he directed Harriet and Draco, pointing to a spot of the floor just to the left of the lift. “Do not move.” He hurried off after Robin.

“How has the idiot squib not realised that his precious gun is a twisted wreck?” Draco muttered. Harriet would have taken offense to his description of Robin had she not already been following Severus. “Hey!” Draco called after her, but when she didn’t respond, he just rolled his eyes to the ceiling and stalked after her. Harriet, he decided, needed a leash. Or a strict wizard to keep her in check. 

By the time the pair reached the courtroom, empty of everyone but Faulks, gathering the last of his paperwork, Robin was already beside the table, staring down at the mangled remains of his gun. He mustn't have been able to see the high table from his seat, Harriet realised, and perhaps he hadn’t really processed what had happened… “We can get you a new gun,” Severus was saying.

“But this was  _ my _ gun,” Robin protested. “I don’t want a new gun.”

“Robin,” Severus growled. “That gun was second hand, at least, when I bought it for you. Don’t be so precious about it.”

“How would you feel if someone did this to your wand?” Robin demanded. A hastily muffled sob burst from him. 

“Robin...”

“But no,” he blustered on before Severus could speak the rest of his piece, “You’ll say that couldn’t possibly be the same. That I couldn’t understand, because I’m just a stupid squib! But you won’t go anywhere without your wand- just think how useless I feel without even having a wand!” His head drooped and his shoulders trembled as he tried to repress sobs. Harriet shot down the stairs… she couldn’t bear to see Robin like this! It was like he was broken, small and completely lost. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harriet!” Severus snapped out. “Can you not just do as you are told for once in your life?” She ignored him. “Robin, you are acting like a child. Leave the damned rifle.”

“Would you leave your wand?” Robin all but shouted, his voice still hoarse and cracking. Harriet flinched against his back, but did not let go. 

Silence ticked on for a few seconds before, quietly, Severus said, “I have no idea where my wand is at the moment. It is certainly not with me.”

“What? Robin asked.

“I dropped it during the battle,” Severus elaborated. “It has not yet been found, or if it has, it has not been returned to me.”

Robin unhooked Harriet’s arms from around him, turning and tucking her into his side. “You came here without a wand?” Robin confirmed, sounding like he couldn’t quite credit it. 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Severus frowned. “Because you are more important to me than my wand,” he said. “Now, Robin, it is time to leave.”

Robin wanted to protest, but, really, what could he do? There was no other option- this gun was no use to him or anyone now. Regretfully, he traced his fingertips over the now-charred wood of the stock: he wouldn’t be talking this weapon on any more romps through the woodlands. “Okay,” he said, dropping his hand to twine his fingers with Harriet’s. She, at least, felt warm and soft and alive. “Let’s go.” He began a slow progress back up the steps, physical and emotional exhaustion making his movements clumsy and a little erratic.

“Finally,” Draco muttered.

“Draco, quiet,” Severus ordered. 

Draco huffed. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, you’d think it was a person!”

Robin stopped, slowly turned to look at Draco. “Shut up,” he growled, “and leave me alone. You’ve made your views perfectly clear, now you can save your breath and keep them to yourself.” Draco’s eyes practically bugged, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. 

In fact, the whole little party stayed silent as they left again, and rode up in the lift. Robin kept a tight grip on Harriet’s hand: his breathing was still just a little uneven, just enough to suggest that he wasn’t as collected as he would have liked everyone else to think. 

“Atrium,” the lift-voice finally intoned, and the grilles slid open. Draco was first to step out, but Harriet, not really looking where she was going, ran straight into the back of him. 

Draco swore, which Harriet thought was a pretty rubbish reaction to have about someone bashing into him- after all, it was he who’d chosen to stop in such a silly place. Then she looked up. “Severus,” Draco said quietly, “is there another way out?”

Severus pushed Draco out of the way so he could leave the lift. His eyes swept the massed crowd. “No,” he replied. “Not without a portkey from the Minister himself.”

“What’s going on?” Robin asked, craning over Harriet’s head. “Whoa… who are all those people?”

“Oh no! Rita Skeeter’s here!” Harriet gasped. 

“Reporters, mostly,” Severus told Robin. “They’ll be here because of the Death Eater trials, I should imagine.”

“Or for us,” Draco mumbled darkly.

“Yes, quite,” Severus agreed tersely. “Just… quick… to the fireplaces, and back to Hogwarts, “Severus Snape’s office. Go.”

Draco strode purposely towards the long rows of fireplaces. Robin sighed. “C’mon, kitten,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.” He clung tightly to her hand anyway, and sweat gathered in the hollow of their palms. 

Harriet knew the flash of a camera bulb when she saw one, and she saw several. Determinedly, she fixed her eyes on Draco’s shoulders and followed him, dogging his steps and ignoring a few questions. She didn’t even really hear the questions as she tugged Robin along behind her. Draco turned, and she realised he was thrusting a pot of floo powder into her hands. “Pass it on,” he advised before stepping into the green flames and whirling away. 

Something made Harriet press the open-topped pot on Robin first, before going herself. She just wanted tired, overwrought Robin away from this melee of madness. He handed the pot back to her, but before she could take a pinch, a manicured hand gripped her shoulder.

“Now, then, Harry, so long since I’ve seen you!” Rita Skeeter simpered. “You won’t mind answering a few questions for an old friend, now, would you? Such an interesting year for you, and now there’s rumours that You-know-who is finally gone! Tell me, Harry, how did you do it?”

Harriet shook her off “My name’s not Harry, beetle” she spat, and stepped into the flames before they fully turned green. That left her with an embarrassing moment of staring at Skeeter before the floo finally whisked her away, and when she stepped out at the other side, her clothes were ashy and smelt a little smouldery. Severus was hot on her heels.

“I’d like to know,” he groused, “why anybody would become a journalist. It is such a parasitic profession.” He, of course, had not a soot-smudge upon him. Robin brushed a patch of blackness from Harriet’s cheek. “Robin,” Severus said sharply, causing a shiver of a flinch from his son, “Will you sleep here, or go home?”

“Honestly,” Robin said slowly, “I don’t care. I just want a shower and sleep.”

“Stay here for tonight,” Severus decided for him. “Your flat was filthy- at least have a clean bed.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Robin drawled sarcastically. “Just what I want Harriet to know- that I live in abject squalor.”

Severus continued archly over the top of Robin. “And hopefully, you can get into less trouble underneath my nose. Come.”

Draco cleared his throat nervously. “Severus, would it be too much of an imposition for me to spend some time in your quarters?” he asked quietly. He’d fixed his eyes on a point somewhere over Severus’ left shoulder, his chin tipped up and his back ramrod straight.

“I have no objections,” Severus replied with a frown. “You are perfectly capable of transfiguring yourself a bed. But why, if I may ask?”

Draco dropped his head to study the floor carefully. “Slytherin is… a little lonely at the moment,” he admitted.

“Ah,” Severus realised. “Young Hamish Leeson.”

Draco shuffled his feet. “Well, yes.”

“And Daphne has returned to her parents,” Severus finished. He paused, sighed. “Draco… you did everything you could for Hamish. Even had there been a trained healer with you, his injuries were of such a severity that there is a very good chance he would not have survived in any case.”

“I know,” Draco replied flatly, though he didn’t sound happy about it. “It’s just… galling.”

Severus almost looked as if he would wrap an arm around Draco’s shoulders: his hand lifted, then dropped again. “This is a discussion for when we are rested and fed,” he decided. “There is plenty of dreamless sleep left in my stores, should you need it.” It was a potion that Severus always kept in stock- after all, he himself was known to need it from time to time.

Draco didn’t say thank you, but Severus didn’t expect it. He led a somber little crocodile out of his office and down the corridor to the door to his private rooms. A house elf was squatting before the living room fireplace, poking the fire into reluctant life. She squeaked as they came in. “Begging your pardon Masters, Mistress,” she said tremulously. 

Severus waved her pardons away. “Do what you need to do,” he said. “Just please, bring us food, and tea.”

“Yes, Master Severus!” the house elf squeaked and popped away.

“I’m going to get washed,” Robin said tiredly. 

“Mind if I come too?” Harriet piped up.

Robin shrugged. “Whatever. ‘Long as I’m clean.”

“No.” Harriet looked back at Severus with a huff. “No, don’t think you are getting off that easily, Harriet. Robin, go.”

Robin felt far too grubby and too close to a shower to even contemplate staying behind, even for Harriet. Severus wouldn’t hurt her, he rationalised through his cotton-wool brain. He lifted her hand, still twined with his, turned it to kiss her palm, and let it go. “See you in a bit, kitten,” he said, and made his way to the bathroom. 

Harriet shifted her weight from foot to foot, not looking at Severus. “I didn’t hurt anything,” she groused.

“You didn’t help either. In fact, you just confused matters.” Severus had to fight hard to stay reasonable, had to keep his instincts under tight rein. 

“Hey, Draco,” Robin called. “There’s an extra room down here. Reckon it must be for you.”

“What?” Severus said, confused. “Robin, are you hallucinating?” He went to investigate, but, sure enough, the door that had led to the bathroom now led to a smallish bedroom with a four-poster draped in Slytherin green. Severus sighed. “Wonderful. Where has my bathroom gone? Damned castle.”

“Not to worry,” Robin called from further down the corridor. “I’ve found it. Separate loo now too.”

Severus began to grumble about the wanton rearrangement of his quarters without his permission. He even groused about the possibility of moving in a Hufflepuff, since all the other houses were so clearly represented. “After all,” he growled. “Harriet’s all but moved in.”

“Where’s the Ravenclaw?” Harriet asked. 

Severus arched an eyebrow. “If you do not think that Robin would have been sorted into Ravenclaw, I do not think you know him as well as you should,” he informed her. 

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure, actually, if good-natured Robin would have done better in Hufflepuff, but she wasn’t about to launch into such an irrelevant argument with Severus. “Can I go now?”

Severus sighed. “I should remove about a thousand points from Gryffindor, however, I believe the hourglasses were destroyed. I should send you back to your room, but that would most likely upset Robin, and fool as he is, he’s been punished quite enough.” He thought for a moment. “You’re going to be spending your free time in castle repairs,” he declared. “Detention. You did directly disobey the orders of a teacher, I think detention should be a given. I am far too tired to tell you off adequately at the moment, but a severe lecture is forthcoming,” he warned. 

She shuffled her feet. “Can I go  _ now? _ ” she wanted to know.

He sighed, and waved a hand. “Yes, go. Take some food through to Robin’s room; he’ll need to eat, and so will you, I should imagine.”

She scurried to obey.

By the time she’d deposited a tray with some of the food brought by the house elves, Robin had finished in the shower. He was still wrapped in towels, one turbaned around his head, but immediately sank to the floor, reaching for a bowl of stew and dumplings. Harriet let him inhale most of it before she spoke. “Are you okay?” she asked. “They didn’t… hurt you, or anything?”

He looked up at her, his dark eyes flickering across her face as if reading every part of her. “It was fucking awful, and I’d rather not discuss it, thanks,” he replied. 

“Oh,” she said, prodding at a dumpling with her spoon. She didn’t really know what to say now. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes more as Robin finished his food. Harriet set her half-eaten bowl aside. Her stomach was still in knots from the events of the past few days: eating didn’t seem right. Robin stood, groaning as he did, and moved around the room, opening drawers and rustling his towel as he pulled on some nightclothes. He drew the curtains, blocking out the afternoon light. She stared into the fire. 

She glanced up as Robin joined her on the cushions again, sitting so close he was almost touching her now. His hair hung in damp strands, clinging to his cheeks, and he looked pale, tired, the shadows beneath his eyes standing out sharply. “Harriet…” he began, “I was wondering… and it’s okay to say no, you can say no and we can pretend I never said anything, but, well, and I know it’s probably a really bad time, and so much has happened, so much bad stuff…”

“Robin?” she asked, confused, and not a little scared. “What?”

He looked down at his drawn up knees. “It was the worst thing in the world, being away from you for so long, not able to see you,” he said hesitantly. “And then, when I thought that I could go to Azkaban, and never see you again, or maybe, even if I didn’t get sent to prison, that you’d never want to see me again…” He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and forced himself to look at her. “Harriet, will you marry me?”


	91. It's a nice day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't make you all wait any longer to find out what Harriet said :)

Severus awoke in the darkness. Soft, snuffling breathing reminded him that he was not alone: he was still utterly unused to sharing his bed. To have a woman lie next to him, sleeping… it was a sensation he thought he’d never experience. He’d slept beside Annie only once, the night Robin was born, and his sexual life had been a string of prostitutes and other men’s wives, sent to him for his well known tastes for punishment. None were likely to sleep beside him, even had he wanted it. Hermione, though… admittedly, she was here because she was unwell, but the soft puff of her relaxed breathing twisted something in his heart that he hadn’t known was there.

He still had no wand, but he was powerful and experienced enough to manage such a simple task as lighting lamps wandlessly. Severus had control in abundance, and tight control was necessary to draw on magic without a conduit. The lamp beside his bed softly glowed to life, and he could see Hermione, whereas before she had been a faint outline. The yellow lamplight reflected off the curve of her cheek and caught the curls tumbling onto the pillow. Why was this girl- this woman- willing to sleep beside him so sweetly, so trustingly? What, in his life filled with one terrible deed after another, had he done to deserve this soft, beautiful, intelligent woman? He kept waiting for her to disappear. He supposed that she would vanish at the end of the school year. She’d find a wizard her own age, although Severus would be  amazed if it wasn’t a dominant wizard. Of that part of her, at least, he was sure. 

She sighed softly in her sleep as he delicately touched her cheek. He’d been gratified to see her sleepy joy when he’d come to bed last night, and she’d wound her limbs around his body to pull him closer. She was regaining control of her injured leg: that was good news indeed. He laid his hand across her forehead to check for fever, then carefully pulled back the blankets to check the wound. She grumbled and curled tighter in the cool dungeon air. “Sev’rus?” she mumbled .

“Hush, pet,” he instructed. “Let me look.”

“Wha’ time is it?” she asked, raising a hand to rub sleep from her eyes and propping herself on one elbow so she could see what he was doing. 

He glanced up at the clock before busying himself with the bandages on her leg. He’d found her yesterday sleeping in her clothes, but she hadn’t protested when he’d stripped her to her knickers. Some odd little part of his brain had rebelled at removing them from her when she was barely awake. “It’s ten past six in the morning,” he replied. Goodness, he’d slept well over twelve hours! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Quite possibly not since he was a child himself. 

He carefully peeled the last of the dressing from Hermione’s still-swollen leg. She squeaked at the angry red thigh that greeted her. He had to suppress a sigh of relief, however: there was no blackening of necrosis, or any greenish trace of venom. There was still the chance of infection, of course, but for now, it was fine. 

“Stay there,” he instructed her. His healer’s bag was in the living room, where he’d dropped it after the battle. Naked, he padded through his quiet quarters to retrieve it. He really needed to find out what had become of his wand. It would have been easier to summon the bag. 

Back in the bedroom, he pulled out fresh, spell-sterilised bandages. He was pleased he’d fully restocked this bag before the battle- it had lain languishing for years, used only to store the instruments of a mediwizard’s trade. He’d filled all the potions and dressings, though, and he’d needed them. Carefully, he treated the angry wound with antiseptic and bandaged it. Like the puckered red mark on his arm, this wound rejected simple magical healing by virtue of the venom, but it was at least closed by magic. She’d scar, he was sure, but at least she was alive, and with two functional legs. Alive was better than many, and whole of body put her above a slew of others. “You must be hungry,” he declared.

Hermione was still looking down at her neatly wrapped, swollen thigh. “Severus… will I… will I be able to walk again?”

“Of course,” he replied. “You’re healing very, very well, Hermione, given the severity of the bite. You have been very, very lucky.” He pulled the blankets up over her again to try to quell her shivers. “But you must look after yourself. That means eating. Do you feel well enough to get up and go to the living room?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Erm, where are my clothes?”

“The house elves took them for cleaning,” he replied. “Here. Transfigure this into something for yourself.” He handed her a plain white shirt from his wardrobe, watched as she reached for her wand on the beside table, and made the shirt into an ankle-length white cotton nightgown. Because it was Hermione, and Hermione liked to show off her skills, it featured pink embroidery around the hem. Severus would never be seen dead in anything so very frivolous, and she knew it. She was taunting him. “Don’t think that just because you are unwell that I will forget this,” he warned. Or her utter stubbornness yesterday.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t,” she said with a shy grin. Severus felt a very inopportune stirring in the pit of his belly, and turned to pull on his own clothes before she could see him hardening, aroused. It wouldn’t do for her to know the effect she was currently having on him. He didn’t want her to know the power she had over him, that this was beyond his control. He was always in control.

Hermione’s leg was still very weak, and she cried out sharply in pain when she first tried to walk on it, though she tried to stifle it. He picked her up, despite her protests. “You are not unnaturally heavy,” he informed her. “I am quite capable of carrying you through to the living room.”

Once there, he deposited her on the sofa and called a house elf to fetch breakfast. It was the elf who tended to look after him who responded. “Good morning, Master Severus,” Maltie said with a little elfish bow. “Master Filius asked that I bring this to you when you awoke.” He handed Severus a note and a newspaper and popped out again to fetch breakfast.

Severus slid a finger beneath the wax seal of the note atop the newspaper, breaking it neatly. 

_ Severus, _

_ Glad to hear you are back, and all is well. To answer your question, Minerva’s doing as well as can be expected- they have her in a magical coma, but she’s breathing for herself now. Visiting hours are from two until four- Pomona and I will visit her this afternoon, if you would care to join us. _

_ The Daily Prophet published a special edition at midnight last night. I’ve included one for you. It’s particularly relevant. _

_ Filius _

 

_ P.S.- Your wand was found. It was a little scuffed and muddy, but I took the liberty of cleaning it up. I’ll keep it with me until you’re ready for it- I’ve never trusted a house elf with a wand since… well, you remember that incident too, I’m sure. _

 

Severus suppressed a long-suffering sigh. He’d rather have his wand in his hand now, but, like Filius, he remembered the slightly senile house elf who’d taken it on himself to ‘tidy away’ every wand he could lay his hands on in the castle. They’d blamed Peeves at first, but for once, it was beyond a prank by the infernal poltergeist. He unfolded the paper. The headline declared ‘IS YOU-KNOW-WHO REALLY GONE THIS TIME?’ but Severus did not spare it more than a passing glance, for the photograph on the front page was not of the Dark Lord. It was of his son, and Harriet, hands entwined, Harriet looking back over her shoulder at Robin. ‘Young love?’ the headline next to it read.

_ Spotted at the Ministry of Magic earlier today. Harriet Potter, previously known as Harry Potter, Boy-who-lived, was seen exchanging doe-eyes with an unknown young man. A Ministry source recognises young Harriet’s love interest as Robin Brandon, 20, rumoured to be the son of feared Hogwarts Professor and renowned potioneer, Severus Snape. Turn to page three for the full story.  _

Severus swore. He almost ripped the paper in opening it, turning to page three. A number of stories jostled for space- an interview with an unnamed Ministry employee about the trial, a piece of blatant speculation fantasy on Robin’s origins- one theory even went so far as to speculate rape- for who, the unwritten suggestion was, would willingly bed Severus Snape? He threw the offending rag down onto the coffee table with a snort. “What is it?” Hermione asked, reaching for the offending thing.

“Utter rubbish,” Severus growled. 

Hermione leaned forwards to pick up the paper as Severus swung a full kettle of water over the fire. “You should sue for slander,” Hermione declared, upon reading the suspicions of rape or foul play. 

“The thought did cross my mind,” Severus grunted. He stared down at the kettle of water. “May I borrow your wand?” he asked.

With a puzzled frown, Hermione handed it over, hilt-first. Severus pointed it into the kettle, muttered a spell, and watched the water come to a full boil in moments. He handed the wand back to Hermione. “I thought you said tea tasted inferior when made with spell-boiled water?” she asked.

“Inferior tea is preferable to slow tea at this moment,” he supplied, lifting the heavy kettle to fill the large teapot. “Whiskey is preferable to tea, but I try not to drink before seven in the morning. It affects my concentration, and concentration is something which I require in great supply to prevent some dunderheaded child blowing my classroom to pieces.”

Hermione tried to stifle a giggle- now that she was used to Severus, and realised that beneath his hedgehog-prickly persona, he really was a kind man, she found his word choice amusing. He fixed her in a steely glare. “You must be feeling better. Are you still in pain?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, a bit” she said. “I can deal with it.” 

Apparently he didn’t think so. “You can have a potion after you eat,” he decided. “Taking another on an empty stomach is a poor idea.”

Both were tucking into huge bowls of porridge when Harriet and Robin surfaced, looking mussed and sleep-sated. “Oh, good, food,” Robin said. “I’m bloody starving.”

“Robin,” Severus said with a sigh, setting his spoon into his bowl, “There’s something you should know…”

Robin grinned. “There’s something you should know too,” he said. “Can I go first?”

Severus cocked a sardonic eyebrow, but gestured for his son to continue- what could possibly have happened during the afternoon or evening? Robin was still clinging to Harriet’s hand- honestly, the boy needed to sort out his clinginess, and soon. He’d already missed days of university, and he needed to get back soon. 

Robin looked down at Harriet, smiling. “We’re going to get married,” he told Severus. Harriet flushed pink and nibbled at her lip, looking back up at Robin from under her eyelids. 

Severus blinked a few times, trying to decide if he had actually heard Robin correctly. “You cannot be serious,” he said after a few moments of stunned silence. Hermione had actually dropped her spoon, the silverware clanging noisily on the rim of her bowl. 

“I’m completely serious,” Robin replied, frowning now. “I’m allowed to make different choices in my life than you made in yours, you know.”

Severus leaned forward, then carefully and very deliberately placed his bowl on the coffee table, the click resounding in the silence, filled only by the crackle of the fire. “Hermione, Harriet, please leave us,” he said softly. 

“This is about me too!” Harriet protested. 

“Harriet,” Severus said, his voice low, “I need to speak to my son. Privately.” 

Harriet tried to stare him out. Robin knew Severus when he was determined, though, and he hoped that, perhaps, alone with Severus, he could persuade him not to be so ridiculous. He also knew Harriet was probably on the verge of a temper. He wanted to have a small temper tantrum himself. That wouldn’t help anything. “It’s okay, kitten,” he murmured in her ear. “I promise, I won’t be making any plans without you, and he’s not going to talk me out of it. If he won’t see reason, we don’t need his blessing, okay?” He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, then unentangled their fingers. “I’ll come and get you in a few minutes, alright?”

“Okay,” she agreed unhappily, turning to go back to his room, but not before shooting Severus a furious glance. 

“Hermione,” Severus said, nodding back towards the bedrooms. “Go, and please, do not discuss this with Harriet. In fact, go to different rooms, please.” More used to obeying Severus without a question, Hermione limped away, trying not to show that she was hurting. She knew... she hoped… that she could have that potion Severus had mentioned soon.

Robin settled into the space she’d vacated on the sofa. “Well?” he prompted. “Get it over with. Tell me what an idiot you think I am.”

“You are an idiot!” Severus snarled. “You’re too young, Robin.”

Robin snorted. “Please. You had a child by the time you were twenty, and you say I’m too young for marriage?”

“I was far too young to be a father!” Severus snapped back. “And you’re still at university. How many of your peers are married? I would lay bets that you have not one married friend. Besides, Harriet is only seventeen!”

There was no arguing with that fact, but Robin couldn’t see the problem. “So?” he asked. “She’s of age in the wizarding world, and muggles can marry at sixteen.”

“Only with parental consent! By all accounts, Harriet despises her muggle guardians, and I know Petunia Evans well enough- I highly doubt you’d be getting consent for anything from them.”

Robin quirked a smile. “To begin with, that only applies in England, not in Scotland,” he pointed out. “Secondly, it’s not so many months until Harriet turns eighteen in any case. I was not suggesting we marry before August, so your point is irrelevant.”

“When did you have in mind for this ridiculous plan?” Severus bit out.

“Honestly, Dad, you could at least pretend to be happy.”

“I have no reason to be happy, Robin,” Severus ground out. “You are throwing your life away- your lives away, both you and Harriet. You are too young.”

“And you’re thirty-nine, and you’re not exactly in marital bliss!” Robin countered. He sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, more quietly. “That wasn’t very nice of me. But, Dad… there’s something about Harriet. Being away from her- it was the worst I’ve ever felt. I couldn’t concentrate, I was bloody miserable. I decided that if we both came out of this whole mess alive, and if she still wanted me, I’d ask her to marry me. We haven’t had a chance to discuss the particulars yet, but I’ll fall in with what she wants, to be honest. I can wait for her, I’ll wait for as long as she needs. I just need to know that she’s mine.”

“You’ve not known her even a year,” Severus pointed out. “How can you possibly know what you will feel for her in five years, ten, fifty? In any case, if you are willing to wait, there is no need to make this so formal. There is no need for engagement, marriage… such things are harder to break than a simple relationship. Life changes, Robin.”

Robin shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “No. Look, I know what you’re thinking, that I’m too young to know my own mind. But without being too crude about it, Dad, I’ve known a lot of girls, and none of them were like Harriet. Haven’t you ever had someone that you thought was the one and only?”

Severus opened his mouth to say that of course there were many other girls, that it was ridiculous to suggest that Harriet was the only girl for Robin, but then, he remembered Lily. Kind, beautiful Lily. There was no other woman in the world like her, and Severus would have married her in a flash at Robin’s age. Hermione… Hermione was special, a spectacular woman, but she was not Lily. Not worse, perhaps, but different. There was no other Lily, not for him. If he had known that as a teenager, what was to stop Robin knowing the same about Harriet now? There was still the odd little niggle in his mind, though, that if his life had gone as he intended, Robin and Harriet would have been brother and sister, children of his, children with Lily… But his life hadn’t gone as he’d wanted. He hadn’t had the woman he loved, and she’d had a child with another man, and was now dead and cold. What if this was what was Robin truly wanted, needed, like Severus had needed Lily? How could be condemn Robin to years of torment, years of broken, unfulfillable love?

He tried one last time, though. If this was meant to be, then so it would be. He had to try to protect them, even if that meant protecting them from themselves. “What about Harriet?” he asked. “She does not have so much experience of love and lust as you. What if you are not right for her? You know, I trust, that it’s no trivial matter for a muggle and a witch or wizard to make a relationship work in the long term, and it will not be so very different with a witch and a squib. Magic is… divisive.”

“I trust her to know her own mind. And she’s never held magic against me yet.”

Severus closed his eyes for a moment. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “It is a shame that you do not carry the Snape name. James Potter would spin in his grave at the idea of his child bearing my name.” The thought pulled a wry quirk from his lips.

“Actually,” Robin said, hesitantly hopeful that Severus has at last warmed to the idea, “I was thinking I might change my name instead of Harriet changing hers.”

Severus looked up sharply, shocked. “Why?” he asked

Robin shrugged. “Not so long ago I was thinking of changing my name to Snape. Well, why not Potter, instead? Harriet would have to give up so much of herself, giving up her name, but me? My last name doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Brandon was your mother’s name,” Severus reminded him. “She loved you dearly, Robin, for all her faults.”

Robin smiled weakly. How could Severus not know this? “She didn’t want to be called Brandon, though,” he pointed out. “She thought it was shameful, not having a married name. It wasn’t her name, it was her parent’s name- her parents, who refused to even acknowledge that I existed. Mum would much rather have been a Snape, you know.”

Oh, Severus knew. He felt guilty, but he still knew that he could never have been married to Annie. “There are other ways, you know, Robin,” he said. “Marriage… it is not everything. It does not strengthen a relationship, does not change it. There is nothing so very special about it- it is just a binding. Just because your mother put so much stock by it…”

“And you didn’t,” Robin finished. “It’s important to me, okay? I won’t lie, I wish you and Mum had been married. I want to do this right, okay? I want it to be proper, because Harriet deserves that, and I deserve that. I don’t need your permission for this, Dad, but I’d like… your blessing, I suppose. I’d like to know that you can at least accept it, accept us. Because how I feel about Harriet… that’s not changing.”

“An impassioned plea indeed,” Severus said, standing and walking over to the fireplace. He leaned against the mantel. “Have you considered the implications, though, Robin?” he continued. “Of all the witches you could have chosen, to choose Harriet Potter- she will probably be in the press for the rest of her life. You’re placing yourself quite firmly in the wizarding world, and they will not be kind to you, to your lack of magic.” He bent to scoop up the newspaper, a flick of his wrist sending it sailing onto Robin’s lap. “They are already quite interested in you.”

Robin’s eyes widened at the front page picture. “I knew something would probably be there, but not on the front page,” he admitted. 

He began to open the paper, but Severus stepped forward to lay a hand over his son’s. “For now, please do not read what they have to say,” Severus asked. “It is… not all kind, and certainly not all true. I think that you need a meal in you, at least, before you face it. And I suppose that you had best fetch your bride-to-be as well- I should like to try to put her in a happier mood by offering my congratulations before she reads this tripe.”

Robin looked up then, a beaming smile splitting his face.  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	92. Sweeping up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, a nice long chapter for you :)

Severus released his grip on Robin as they apparated into the alleyway behind Robin’s flat. In silence, they made their way down the quiet little passageway. Robin let them into the house and preceded Severus up the stairs. It felt odd to be back here. The muggle world didn’t mesh well with the madness of the magical world, particularly of late. In the grand stone halls of Hogwarts, battle seemed a possibility, but here, in a poky terrace at the northern edge of Fallowfield, people were more worried about their rent than about madmen attempting genetic cleansing. He lifted the key in the lock as he unlocked his door, stepping through and holding the door for Severus without a word. Severus’ eyes swept the room: whilst not much had changed since he left here just days ago, he was quick to spot the abandoned tea towels, bloodstained, lying on the floor, and a smashed jar of what looked to be daisy petals. “What happened here?” he asked quietly.

Robin knelt carefully by the debris. “Oliver didn’t entirely trust my motivations,” he said, reaching out to brush the smashed glass and petals into a heap- he’d not put them away after brewing up his last batch of burn salve. Severus wouldn’t be happy to know that he was treating ingredients in such a laissez-faire manner, but it hardly seemed the most important point at the moment.

“Stop,” Severus commanded. He used his recently-recovered wand to banish not just the debris, but the towels as well. “Do not add more blood to the mix.” He tucked the wand safely into a pocket. “Now, explain. Whose blood was that?”

“Mine,” Robin admitted, standing with a grimace. His body still felt heavy and tired, a single night of sleep not able to counteract the stress of the past few days. “Oliver petrified me, and I just toppled over. It wasn’t as dramatic as it looked- I bit my own cheek.”

Severus grunted his disapproval as he lowered himself to the floor before the fireplace and took out a large pot of floo powder and a stone from the small pile that lived on his hearth, to ground the connection. It was the work of a moment to weave the spell and floo the stone back to it’s home to link the fireplaces. He stood, dusting off his knees. “Fetch whatever it was you were so desperate to get,” he advised Robin. “Harriet is long overdue in paying a visit to the Weasleys, and I’d like to ensure that Imogen and Fred are in reasonable health.”

“Maybe I should… sit that one out?” Robin suggested nervously. In truth, the very thought of a family as large as the Weasley’s made him feel a little anxious.

“Molly Weasley would be exceedingly hurt not to be one of the first to know about Harriet’s engagement,” Severus countered. “She views Harriet as one of her children. You should be there to meet her.”

“I met her when you brought Harriet back from Malfoy Manor.”

Severus glared at his son. “I hardly think she will have a clear memory of you from that short meeting,” he pointed out. “If you are mature enough to be married, you are mature enough to do this. Gather what you need.”

Reluctantly, Robin gave a nod. He turned to his desk, scrabbling in the very back of the drawer. He turned to his father, something clutched loosely in his hand. “Be honest,” he said quietly, “Do you think she’ll like it?”

He handed Severus a small black box. “A ring?” Severus asked as he opened it. “I did not realise you had already purchased a ring- I had believed this to be a spur of the moment decision.”

“No,” Robin said, scuffing his toes against the thin carpet. “Like I said… being away from her for so long was bloody torture. Somehow, I kept ending up in front of jeweller’s windows, thinking about her… imagining a life with her, getting old with her, even having kids with her.”

“And you couldn’t have just bought a pair of earrings and had done with it,” Severus grunted, lifting the delicate ring out of it’s holder. 

“Harriet’s ears aren’t pierced,” Robin pointed out, quite deliberately missing the point. “So, what do you think?”

Severus eyed the ring. “I think it will suit her very well,” he allowed. “She may not be enthralled by the colour, mind you.” He pursed his lips as he examined it. “Perhaps this is foolish, given recent events, but would you like it charmed against loss?”

Robin lifted one side of his mouth in a shy smile. “Yeah, please… and maybe to stop it getting broken? I know what Harriet’s like. She’ll smash it playing quidditch, or something.”

“Yes, rather like someone else I know,” Severus replied pointedly. “Between the two of you, you’ve spent enough time injured or ill to last a lifetime.”

Robin shrugged. “At least we both know what broken bones feel like,” he suggested calmly. “We can be sympathetic when the other one’s mainlining skele-knit.”

Severus didn’t reply. He’d laid the ring in the centre of his palm, touching it carefully with the tip of his wand. His lips moved, a whisper of spell too low for Robin to make out. The metal flared briefly. Severus placed it back in the box and held it out for Robin to take. “It should not accidentally fall from her finger,” he said. “The gems are protected from breakage, and the whole should be impervious to dirt and potions spillages. Not that I foresee Harriet doing much brewing in her future.” 

“Is she really not that good at potions?” Robin asked, carefully slipping the box into his pocket.

“She doesn’t meet my standards,” Severus said. “How could she? She lacks the patience. You will have to keep her in bruise salve- I imagine she’ll need it if she goes into defence training. By all accounts, it’s very physical.”

“Of course,” Robin agreed with a long-suffering sigh, “if it’s dangerous, Harriet wants to do it.”

“You can still back out,” Severus suggested. “You can leave her to her foolishness.”

Robin looked affronted. “Dad! Not this again, please.”

“Very well,” Severus replied. “Is there anything else you need, besides a house elf to clean the place.”

Robin ignored the jibe. “No,” he said, licking suddenly dry lips nervously. “No, I think maybe Harriet should have her ring. Is the floo ready?”

Severus inclined his head. “As if it had never been broken,” he replied.

Robin took down his pot of turquoise floo powder. “By the way,” he said, holding it up, “this stuff is awesome. I wish you’d made it sooner.”

Apologies for my laxity,” Severus replied dryly, gesturing to the fireplace. “Are you going, or do you mistrust my ability to link fireplaces?”

“No… no!” Robin replied, taking some of his powder and stuffing the container into his bag. “No, it’s fine.” He cast the powder into the flames, watching them change colour before stepping in and whirling off to Hogwarts, Severus in pursuit.

Locating Harriet didn’t take long: she was curled up in front of the fire in Robin’s room. She looked up at Robin with reddened eyes. “What’s wrong, kitten?” he asked softly, sitting beside her. Awful scenarios ran through his mind- what if someone else had died? Minerva was in bad condition- maybe she had died? Or what if Harriet had changed her mind, she didn’t want to marry him anymore? “Harriet, tell me.”

Harriet shook her head slowly. “Hermione… Hermione says that I can’t… that we’re idiots, that it’ll never work…”

“About us getting married?” Robin asked.

Harriet nodded.

He sighed deeply. “Harriet… love… if you want to say no, if you want to change your mind, you can. I’ll deal with it.”

She turned her head to look up at him sideways, her hair hanging across her face, obscuring all but flashes of green eyes and soft skin. “Do  _ you _ want to say no?” she enquired.

“Of course not,” he replied, pulling his knees up to his chest. “But if you don’t want to get married, well, it would be pretty pointless doing so. You’d just be unhappy. I want to be married to you, desperately- but the thing I want more is for you to be happy.”

“I want us to be together,” Harriet murmured. “Because if we’re married, who can tell us that we’re not allowed to see each other?”

He tentatively reached out to tuck her hair back over her shoulder so he could see her face. “Nobody, kitten… we’d even get conjugal visits if I did end up in Azkaban.” This was said lightly, and Harriet couldn’t help the slight snort of a laugh. He reflected her weak smile with a stronger one. “I love you, Harriet,” he said gruffly. 

“Love you too,” she replied. “I just wish people would leave us alone.”

Robin flopped back, pulling her with him and tucking her head into the cradle of his shoulder. “They just need time to get used to it,” he sighed. “I can see where they’re coming from- less than a year ago, neither of us knew that the other one existed. Well, okay, I knew you existed, but only from newspapers and Dad. But I’ve had crushes, and I’ve had lust, and nothing feels like this, like you. If this isn’t the real thing, then I can’t imagine how anyone stands being in love. And yes, we’re young, but we’re not stupid. Plenty of your friends will be marrying soon, so I can’t see the issue there. And what if we waited five years, and just regretted that we’d doubted ourselves?”

“Mmm,” she agreed, enjoying the comfort of his embrace. “Yeah. And no-one told Ron and Imogen they were stupid for getting married… they all said it was a brilliant idea.” She fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps I should get pregnant,” she suggested, only half joking. “Then they’d all stop bothering us.”

Robin froze. “I’m not sure that’s a sensible idea, kitten,” he said carefully, not quite sure how she’d react. He was surprised she’d suggest it, even in a joking manner, given that she’d not long since been pregnant. 

She sighed. “I know,” she agreed. She thought for a moment. “I bet it would wreak havoc with going to the Wizarding colleges too.”

“It probably would,” he agreed, relieved that she hadn’t seriously considered a baby just yet. Married was one thing, but to be a father at twenty? He wasn’t happy with that idea. Carefully, he slipped a hand into his pocket. “Well, now that’s sorted, I have something for you.”

“Hmm?” she asked, distracted by her own thoughts. “What it is?”

“Well,” he replied, “You’re rather missing a new possession, I think.”

“What?” she asked, puzzled. 

He smiled gently and scrambled off the cushions. “Well, I believe proposals are traditionally given on one knee, so…” Theatrically, he knelt before her, offering the jeweler's box. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, not really sure what to do next. Was this some kind of girl thing? Should she know what to do? Mostly, she just felt a bit embarrassed. Her cheeks flamed. “Robin, get up! What are you doing?”

“Trying to propose the traditional way,” he informed her with a grin. “Not when I’m half asleep.”

“But…” she protested

“Hush, Harriet,” he smiled back. “This is what it’s meant to be about, isn’t it? Old fashioned chivalry and romanticism. Give me my moment and look at the damned ring.”

With hesitant fingers, Harriet plucked the box from his hands, carefully easing it open as if she was afraid that even the container would break. “It’s for me?” she confirmed shyly.

“Of course it’s for you,” Robin said. “Do you like it?”

Suddenly, she felt a bit like the child under the stairs again. She didn’t get presents… not presents like this, beautiful, expensive presents. She nodded dumbly, and Robin finally took pity on her, removing the ring from her grasp and taking her left hand. “Marry me, Harriet Potter?” 

“I already said yes,” she whispered, and he took her left hand to put the ring in place. 

“It’s a little bit big,” he noted as he rose from kissing her hand. “I had to guess. We can get it resized.”

“Robin…” she said softly, “It’s… it’s too much.”

He hugged her hard to him. “Don’t be daft. You have to have a ring if you’re going to be engaged. I’m not having you miss out on it just because we’re students, okay.”

“But how much did it cost? How did you afford it?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” Robin said with a kiss to her forehead. “I did, and I wanted to.”

“How very saccharine,” Severus drawled from the doorway.

“Dad!” Robin protested, glaring at his father for spoiling the moment. 

Severus didn’t seem to care. “Harriet, I shall be leaving for the Burrow in half an hour. I suggest you change and ready yourself to go.”

Harriet looked down at yesterday’s rumpled clothes she’d pulled on that morning and nodded. “Yeah, she agreed. “I’ll be back, okay?” She was slow to drop Robin’s hand, pulling his arm with her for a way as he smiled indulgently. 

When she was gone, Severus broke the silence. “She raises a fair point. How did you pay for it?”

“It wasn’t actually that much,” Robin said. “It’s not new… I got it second hand. And I traded it in for some of Mum’s jewelry. It was just sat in a box.”

Severus frowned. “Have you considered that you may have children who may have liked to inherit their grandmother’s things?”

“They were mine to do what I wanted with,” Robin reminded Severus. “I’d rather Harriet had a ring than cater to the hypothetical wishes of my hypothetical children. I’d worry that people wouldn’t take her seriously without it- that people wouldn’t take us, this, seriously.”

“Such are the trappings of modern life,” Severus intoned, already turning away. “Make sure you are ready to go in half an hour.”

“Yeah,” Robin replied. “Oh… where’s Hermione, by the way?”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I want to speak to her.”

The father eyed the determined son. “She’s in the library. Leave the door open.”

“I’m hardly going to seduce her,” Robin snorted. “No offense, but she’s not my type.”

“It is not your actions that I am worried about,” Severus replied darkly. “Just leave the door open. And realise that she worries that she’s losing her friends- first Weasley, then Harriet.”

Robin winced and nodded, though reluctantly. He supposed that he could understand that. “I’ll be gentle. Ish.” he promised. Severus decided he couldn’t ask any more. He knew that Hermione was stridently against Robin and Harriet marrying. Given that he harboured many of his own doubts, he could not reassure her, but perhaps Robin could. If something wasn’t done, Hermione stood the very real risk of completely alienating one of her oldest friends. Severus could have compelled her to good behaviour, but that seemed counterproductive.

Robin tapped lightly on the library door. “Hermione?” he asked as he pushed it open.

“What?” she snapped, glaring into her book. 

He suppressed a sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy. Gentle, he reminded himself. Much as he’d like to, shouting at her wouldn’t achieve anything, and would probably just end with her whipping out her wand. He perched on the edge of the seats opposite her, the chairs flanking the fireplace. “We both grew up in muggle households,” he began carefully, trusting that she would listen, even if she was pretending not to. “So I’m sure you’ve heard the expression too- if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. It’s fine that you don’t like Harriet getting married, it’s fine that you don’t like me. But don’t let it ruin a friendship, don’t push Harriet away because of this.”

“She’s being an idiot,” Hermione ground out, her eyes still fixed on her book, tough they didn’t move across the page. “What kind of friend would I be if I let her get married so young, throw her life away?”

Robin kept his annoyance at being so callously dismissed as a life ruining event at bay. “You’re thinking with a muggle mindset,” he said. “And I know that- I live in the muggle world. None of my friends are married, and I know I’ll get all kinds of people telling me what an idiot I am. But in the wizarding world, we’re only months, a year, maybe, ahead of schedule. You already have married friends. Would you tell them that they are throwing their lives away?”

“That’s different,” Hermione hissed. “Imogen’s pregnant.” 

Robin cocked his head to the side. “And if Harriet were pregnant, it would be okay?” he queried, though he knew the answer already.

“Of course not!”

“Then it’s because I’m a squib.” Hermione finally looked up, her eyes flashing. Robin held up his hands to stop her. “That’s fine,” he said. “I know what I am. I’ve had since I was eleven to get used to the idea. But don’t you think Harriet is sensible enough to make her own choices, decide on her own life? Can’t you trust her that much?”

“She’s never known anything but you,” Hermione said, her face scrunched up in displeasure. “She has no idea what other men- what a wizard- would be like.”

Robin stood. “That’s Harriet’s choice,” he said. “And if you can’t keep your thoughts to yourself on this, it might well be Harriet’s choice to move away from you and find other friends.”

“Are you threatening me?” Hermione gasped.

“No. I’m just saying what I think. But please don’t upset Harriet again, or I’ll be making sure that she doesn’t get hurt. I only want the best for her.”

“Then leave her!” Hermione riposted. “That’s what’s best for her!”

Robin shook his head sadly. “That’s not your call to make,” he replied before leaving, shutting the door softly behind him. Though he didn’t know it, Hermione sighed deeply, put her book aside and gazed into the fireplace, lost in thought.

Twenty minutes later, all but Draco had gathered in the living room. Hermione looked at her feet instead of at Harriet, and Harriet, oblivious to Robin’s intervention, didn’t make any effort to approach her friend. She ran her thumb nervously against the hard band of her new ring. She didn’t know why she was nervous as she stepped into the floo. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been to the Burrow loads of times before. She’d spent weeks and weeks there over the years, holidays spent eating as much as she could hold and playing games of quidditch in the back field. It seemed like nothing would have changed, but of course, everything had.

She was nervous about taking Robin, too- how was she supposed to share happy news when the heart of the Weasley family had been split? But Severus was probably right when he said that Molly would be very hurt to have the news kept from her. It had been the note from Ron that had sealed it, when she’d sent a note that morning, when Severus and Robin had gone to relink the fireplaces. ‘ _ Come. Merlin’s sodding underpants, please, please come. I can’t stand it any longer.’ _ And so, she went.

Hermione was already in Ron’s arms when she stumbled out into the Weasley kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “I just can’t believe it!”

“I know,” Ron said roughly. “I know.” He looked over her shoulder to Harriet. “Hey,” he said in greeting. 

“Hey,” she replied, not knowing what else to say. Then she was enfolded against Mrs. Weasley. “Oh, Harriet, dear,” she whispered. “Oh, thank goodness you’re alright.” he held Harriet at arms length to look at her. “You didn’t get hurt?” she confirmed. 

“I’m fine,” Harriet said.

“Molly,” Severus said in brusque greeting, dusting off his pristine robes from imaginary soot. “I am so very sorry to impose upon you. How is Fred? I treated him just after the battle, and I wished to check on his condition.” 

She swallowed hard. “The healers say he’ll always have a tremor,” she replied, her voice thick. “But a least he’s alive.” She turned away just as Robin was deposited into the kitchen. “Sit down, sit down, and I’ll just get the kettle on, and I’ll see if Fred’s up and about for you.” She picked up the kettle from the stove, got halfway to the sink, and clattered it down on the kitchen counter. She hunched over it, her shoulders heaving and almost silent sobs wracking her body.

All of them stood bewildered- for Molly, of all people, to break down like this! “Mum?” Ron asked hesitantly, but she gave no response. The kettle clanged as it fell over, knocked as she brought her hands to her face to cover her eyes. 

“Come on,” Robin said, surprising them all by stepping forward. He laid his hands gently on Mrs. Weasley’s shoulders. “Sit down, and let me do that.”

Her hands dropped enough that she could see over her fingers. “Who’re you?” she asked shakily. 

“I’m Robin,” he said softly. “We met once before- I’m Severus’ son.”

Molly looked at him, wide-eyed for a moment, then nodded, though it wasn’t clear if it was in recognition, or just simple acceptance. She let him steer her to a seat at the table, pulling out a chair for her, and then watched as he rescued the kettle and filled it at the sink, moving some dishes out of the way to fit it under the spout. He set it to boil on the stovetop, then started running hot water into the sink, lifting out pots and pans. “Where’s the soap?” he asked.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” Ron said. “Just leave them…”

“It’s fine,” Robin replied. “It’s no trouble.”

“It’s under the sink,” Imogen said quietly from the doorway. “Here- you wash, I’ll dry.”

Robin smiled at her. She wasn’t redheaded, so not a Weasley… that left one logical conclusion. “Imogen, I presume?” he asked. “I’ve heard about you.”

She nodded. “Yes, but I don’t know who you are? I saw you after the battle, but...”

“Robin,” he said. “I’m Severus’... Professor Snape’s… son.” He looked at Harriet a question in his eyes. She shook her head. She didn’t want to tell people like this, not with Mrs. Weasley so upset. She resisted the urge to hide her hand behind her back: the hand now adorned with a ring that felt alien on her finger. 

In any case, Imogen seemed to accept Robin’s explanation. “It seems there’s a lot about Professor Snape that people don’t know,” she said conversationally, picking up a tea towel.

Severus lowered himself into a sea across the table from Mrs. Weasley. “How have you been sleeping, Molly?” he asked with a sigh. Clearly, the Weasley matriarch was not holding up very well. 

She looked at him helplessly. “I’ve hardly been apart from Arthur since we were eighteen,” she said. “How can I sleep when he’s… he’s gone?” She looked down at her shaking hands. “I just feel so very  _ cold. _ ”

Severus was no counsellor. Molly needed someone else for that. “I have some dreamless sleep,” he told her. “I shall fetch some for you- you need a good night’s sleep if you’re to manage. You can’t be expected to make funeral arrangements when you’re exhausted.” She nodded jerkily, tears still tracking down her round cheeks. Imogen put a cup of tea beside her. “She needs sugar,” Severus grunted. Imogen fetched the sugar bowl and the alarmingly poorly-stocked biscuit tin. With some coaxing, Molly took a biscuit and nibbled at it.

Severus turned his attention to Imogen. “Are you well, Imogen?” he asked. 

“Oh, fine, thank you,” she replied.

“I was not asking from politeness,” he informed her. “How are you? Any aches or pains, or anything you feel might be amiss with your pregnancy?”

“I’m a bit tired,” she admitted. “And I had the pains again after the battle, but they’ve stopped now.”

“I’m making her rest,” Ron assured the Professor. 

“Then it seems that you do have some uses,” Severus drawled in response. Ron visibly flinched. Harriet found herself eyeing Imogen. Dressed in jeans and a reasonably close-fitting long sleeved t-shirt, there was a definite rise in her midsection. She actually looked pregnant without voluminous robes hiding her body. Harriet almost subconsciously dropped her own hand to her flat middle. It wasn’t that she was jealous of Imogen, exactly, but she might have been at about the same point as Imogen had she not taken the post-coital contraceptive. Now, with an engagement ring on her finger, she wondered again if that baby had been Robin’s… but then, a little voice in her head muttered, it was as likely to have been Zabini’s. That thought made her shudder. 

“Please, Professor,” Imogen asked,  eager to change the subject, “do you know when lessons will be starting again?”

Ron sighed dramatically. Severus, and everyone else present, ignored him. “I am not sure that the decision has been made yet,” he said gravely. “There was a definite feeling that lessons should be as uninterrupted as possible, but the safety of the students must, obviously, come first. The castle must be repaired and cleaned first.”

This, for some reason, was apparently too much for Molly. She stood, leaving a third of her cup of tea, and brushing her wrist below her eyes. “I’ll go and find Fred for you, Severus,” she said shortly, hurrying from the room. 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Has she sought help, a confidant?” he asked, directing his question to Ron, who looked a little shaken at the attention. 

It wasn’t Ron who answered; it was Imogen. “She’s really quiet,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know her very well, and she’s been nothing but kind to me, and invited me to stay here, but I don’t think she’s really coping very well. She doesn’t seem to have many friends to talk to. She hasn’t had many visitors: just Professor Lupin and Auror Tonks, and Mr. Shacklebolt.”

Severus inclined his head in appreciation of her answer. “It is early days yet,” he said. “Many people are still in shock.”

He was prevented from saying any more as Fred arrived, George hot on his heels. Harriet outright stared at Fred: she just couldn’t help it. She hadn’t paid him much attention following the battle other than to know that he was alive, but his muscles seemed to jump of their own accord, and one hand flinched open and closed metronomically. With a shuffle, he edged into the room, and George pulled out a chair for him.Fred grinned weakly as he looked at Harriet and Hermione’s shocked faces. “I know,” he said. “I’m a bloody mess.” He turned his attention to Severus. “The healers at St. Mungo’s said that I am lucky to be alive,” he said. “My nervous system was shutting down: they reckon if you hadn’t made me drink those potions, I’d have been a goner.”

“And do they believe that your condition will improve?” Severus asked.

Fred shook his head, the movement strange and jerky. “Not really,” he said. “There are potions, they suggested some potions, but…”

“But they cloud your mind and senses,” Severus finished for him. 

“Exactly,” Fred finished. “How can I work, invent things, when I’m in a haze?”

“You can’t work anyway, Freddie.” None of them had noticed Mrs. Weasley return. Her eyes were swollen and red, her voice hoarse as if she’d been screaming. “You can’t even eat for yourself.”

“Don’t be silly, Mum,” George cut in. “We’ve been through this. I can be his hands. It’ll be a bit slower, but it’s better than nothing.”

“It’s better than the spell damage ward for the rest of my life,” Fred cut out harshly. His words, too, seemed strangely clipped, as if he had trouble forcing them out.

“George, you have your whole life…” Mrs Weasley began, but George cut her off. 

“Fred’s my twin. He is my life,” he said firmly. “And, together, we’ll manage.”

“But what happens when you meet a nice girl…”

Fred was looking down at his hands, guilt in the set of his trembling shoulders. He and George had had this conversation many times over in the last two days. George’s mind was made up. “No, Mum,” George insisted. “My brother’s more important than any girl. You’ve got Ron and Bill to give you grandkids. His hands rested steady on his twin’s twitching shoulders. 

“I just want to see all of children happily married!” Mrs. Weasley protested.

“Mum, you’re fixating on marriage,” George said. “We can be happy without getting married, you know.”

“Well, maybe I just want some  _ happy  _ news after all this!” Mrs. Weasley said shrilly, throwing her hands up in the air. “Maybe I’d like to plan a wedding instead of a funeral!”

Severus and Hermione both glanced pointedly at Harriet. This, she supposed, was the best opening she was going to get, though it didn’t feel right, it still felt too awful that Mr. Weasley wasn’t here, that Charlie would never know. Nervously, she cleared her throat. “Erm… Mrs. Weasley… everyone… I… I did come to see how you were, of course, but I’ve got some news, and… and… I’d like you all to know…”

Every eye in the room was on her. “What is it, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, almost fearfully. “Is everything alright?”

Merlin! Had Ron been this nervous, telling everyone about Imogen? He’d done so well compared to her! She tried to remember what he’d been like, swallowed around the lump in her throat, and said, “yes, everything’s fine… actually, better than fine. I’m… I’m going to get married.”

Stunned silence, for a moment. Then, a cry of joy from Mrs. Weasley, laughter from Fred and George, just slightly out of time with each other, and of shocked disbelief (though not unhappiness) from Ron. Mrs. Weasley started crying again. “Oh, oh, Harriet… how lovely… who is the young man? Do we know him?”

Harriet looked helplessly at Robin. “It’s me,” he said with a broad smile. “Harriet’s agreed to marry me.”

“You?” Mrs. Weasley asked, blinking at him. Severus had a hand tightly around Hermione’s wrist, a silent reminder to hold her tongue. This was not her business. “How… how long have you known each other?”

“We met the day I found out I was a girl,” Harriet supplied. She noticed Robin twining his fingers around each other, something he often did when he was uncomfortable, or nervous. “We’ve been together… was it the beginning of October?” she asked

“The very end of September,” he corrected. 

“A whirlwind romance?” Molly ventured cautiously.

“Something like that,” Robin said. 

Molly nodded sagely. “Wartime has that effect,” she said. “You must find your happiness where you can, after all.” She peered somewhere around Harriet’s middle, and at first, Harriet shrank away, thinking that Molly was looking to see if her belly was swollen. “May I look at the ring, dear?” Molly asked. Harriet let out a breath of relief. It had been her hand Molly had been looking at. She took a step towards the Weasley matriarch, holding out her hand. “Oh, very pretty,” Molly said, taking Harriet’s hand in her larger, red ones. “Are those emeralds?”

“They are,” Robin said softly. “Just like Harriet’s eyes.” 

Harriet glanced up at him with a shy smile and a blush, then back down at the ring that really didn’t quite feel like hers yet, the little trio of emeralds set in a delicate tangle of strands of silver, weaving and knotting over each other.

Molly released Harriet’s hand with a deep sigh and a weak smile. “Well, lovelies, congratulations. May you have a long and happy marriage-as happy as mine, and rather longer.”

“Thank you,” Harriet said quietly. 

Molly swallowed hard. “Imogen, dear, is there any tea left in that pot? I rather feel the need for another cup. Now then, young man, come and sit down and tell me about yourself.” She beckoned Robin to the table, and pointed to a chair. “So, then,” she began. “how old are you?”

Harriet let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Molly seemed to like Robin. At least someone was genuinely happy for them, and she could only be happy that they seemed to have cheered Mrs. Weasley up, at least a little. She slipped into the seat beside Robin, clasping his hand beneath the table as he answered Mrs. Weasley’s questions without any trace of annoyance. 


	93. Lights in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this took me so very long to write and get up! Life got in the way, as it always does...

Harriet thudded abruptly into wakefulness as something crashed across her head. She gasped, one arm shooting up as the other dived beneath her pillow for her wand. There was a stunning spell already on her lips when her brain woke enough to release that her other hand had found something fleshy, and theat, beside her, someone panted, then cried out. She lit her wand instead. 

It was Robin’s arm, which had flailed against her face. He was sweating, his hair plastered to his cheeks, and he whimpered, turned his head away from the light. Harriet knew a nightmare when she saw one: she’d woken from enough herself over the years. She leant over him, a hand on his shoulder. “Robin,” she whispered. “Robin, wake up.” She squeezed his shoulder, brushed the sodden hair off his forehead and cheeks, her wandlight reflecting wetly off his damp skin. “Robin, it’s okay, it’s not real,” she said, louder this time. “Robin!”

He woke with a whimper and a gasp, his eyes flying open, unfocused, black pools of fear. He shied away from the light, and Harriet dropped her wandpoint down, dimming the glow in the bedclothes. “Are you alright?” she asked softly.

His breath came fast and hard as he raised one hand to brush against her cheek, so softly as to almost not be there. “Harriet,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” she replied lightly, smiling, trying to make him feel better. “I’m never going to be anywhere else.” 

He let his hand settle on her cheek again, his long fingers cupping around the back of her neck, slipping beneath her hair. “Is it real?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you really say you’d marry me, be mine? I didn’t just dream it?”

“You didn’t dream it,” she replied, putting out her wandlight and thrusting the wand back beneath her pillow.

“Good.” A firm pressure on the back of her neck pulled her down to him, down to a kiss. The tension seemed to ebb from his body as he brought her lips to his, though he still held her firmly, and his other arm came out to wrap around her waist. He wasn’t rough, but he was firm in his desperation, almost inhaling her, pressing his lips against hers. His eyes drifted closed as she returned the kiss. He brushed against her lips with his tongue, but she pulled back. 

“What’s wrong, kitten?” he asked huskily. 

“What did you dream about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he murmured, tugging lightly at her to bring her back down.

She shook her head, resisting. “It wasn’t nothing. You were having a nightmare.”

“It’s not important, kitten. I’d rather not remember it,” he told her softly. “Kiss me again?” He leaned up to hiss softly in her ear. “Help me forget?” His hands had gone to her waist, long fingers encircling her, thumbs dipping below the waistband of her pyjama bottoms to brush against her hipbones. “You’ve lost weight, kitten,” he murmured, rubbing against the sharp juts. “Haven’t you been eating properly?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply before he’d sealed his lips to hers again, swallowing her breath, swallowing her moan. 

There was something happening… A low fire was kindling in Harriet’s belly, the firm touch of his hands making her feel breathless. Each brush of his fingers left a bright spot of heat, tingling, spreading and warming. She hadn’t felt like this since before… before the Manor. She couldn’t think properly, his hands felt like they were almost burning her flesh, and her still sleep-mussed brain couldn’t keep up. His tongue expertly, completely, took her mouth, took her. This wasn’t frightened Robin, nervous Robin… this was Robin who knew exactly what he was doing. What he was doing was driving her beyond the point of conscious thought. 

His clever hands were inching up her ribs, his fingertips flanking her spine as he pulled her sleep t-shirt with him, until it bunched under her arms, and still he never broke the desperate kiss. The harsh sound of both of their breathing filled the room, each struggling to manage enough breath as their hearts pounded in time. 

The burning steel of Robin’s cock was pressed tight to Harriet’s thigh; she writhed against it without conscious thought. He dropped one hand to her hip again, holding her steady as she squirmed atop him. Her hands clung tight to his shoulders, her short nails digging crescents in his flesh as he teased at the side of her breast with one hand and stroked repeatedly against the sharp ridge of her hipbone with a thumb. Her stomach did slow, lurching somersaults, his tightened in anticipation of feeling her, being inside her, watching her as he filled her, consumed her, and finally, watched her come undone, succumb to the pleasure. 

She was tugging at the waistband of his own pyjama bottoms now, having run her hands down his bare chest. He grasped the ruched hem of her top and pulled it over her head, breaking their kiss. “Eager, kitten?” he asked with a smile in his voice, brushing her hair out of her face again. 

Harriet was eager: it was as if the complete lack of thought to her sex drive recently had all come crashing down on her at once. She pressed back into a kiss. 

Robin wasn’t used to not being in charge, not used to being pinned by Harriet’s scant weight. He kissed her, but he also surged beneath her, rolling her onto her back and following until he was above her. Harriet squeaked in surprise. “You okay, love?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she gasped, tugging his pyjamas down a little. They caught on the solid jut of his erection. Carefully, he disentangled her fingers, then undressed himself to stop her causing any mishaps. He’d have thought she’d have been more careful- hadn’t she ever had a similar issue when she’d inhabited a male body? He kicked away the fabric. 

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You,” she replied with a breathless grin and a roll of her hips. Of course, she was was still wearing her own pyjama bottoms, and his legs straddled her hips, so she wouldn’t have succeeded in lodging him inside her in any case. She did manage to grind herself up against him, though, and she let out a mewl to his groan. He decided that it was time to take control of the situation again. In a swift swoop, he had her hands pinned to the pillow above her head.

He heard her sharp catch of breath- that could be attributed to excitement, but the sudden bunching of muscles beneath him didn’t seem like excitement. Nor did the suddenly wide-eyed look, the vestiges of light from the embers catching her glassy stare. “Harriet” he asked softly, then, realising what he’d done, he immediately sat back, releasing her arms. He rolled off her, carefully settling by her side, not really touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. “Gods, Harriet, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” How could he have forgotten, been so foolish. Of course she wouldn’t want to be restrained! She was recovering from rape and imprisonment, it was probably the worst thing he could do. He mentally berated himself, calling himself all kinds of fool in his mind. 

Harriet’s mind, too, was busy. It’s just Robin, she told herself. Only Robin. Robin won’t hurt you… It’s not the same. Carefully, she took a deep, lung-stretching breath. “I’m okay,” she whispered between shallow, inhalations. “I just… wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

He cautiously reached out to lay a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was being a fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have known that it would probably upset you… I saw you… after…” He swallowed hard. “After Dad bought you back. Your wrists, your ankles- they were hurt…”

“Because I fought,” she murmured. “You… you won’t hurt me, will you?”

“Never, kitten. Never willingly,” he corrected. For wasn’t that what he’d just done? No matter how accidentally, he’d made her remember, relive. Guilt churned his gut. He thrust his fingers through his hair, the sheen of night terrors making it fall through his fingers like water. “Shall I… do you want me to go away? Leave you alone for tonight?”

“No,” Harriet said, sounding hurt. “Why would I want that?” She looked up at him with wide eyes. “Please stay?” She resisted the urge to hold out her arms like a toddler: instead she wrapped her small hand around his wrist. “I don’t want to be alone,” she almost whispered. “Please… you asked me to help you forget. Can’t you help me forget? I don’t want to see… his… his face…” she swallowed hard, forced the name out. “Zabini. I don’t want to think about him, he’s dead. I only want to see you.” She stroked over the soft cotton of the bedding, not quite looking Robin in the eye. “I know I’m being silly. I should be over it.”

He stroked her hair back from her face, his own nightmare faded and indistinct now. “I’m not sure you’ll ever be ‘over it’, love,” he said. “And that’s fine, it’s probably normal, or as normal as you can get with that kind of situation.” He let his forehead rest against hers, their noses touching. “But I never want you to be frightened, love,” he murmured.

She took a careful breath “Kiss me again,” she said. “Take away those memories, and make new ones, please?”

“We’ve got a lifetime of memories to make,” he assured her. “Close your eyes, kitten, feel…”

She pushed him away as he pulled her towards him. “No,” she said softly. I don’t want to close my eyes. I want to see you. Can we put the lights on?”

“Anything,” he breathed softly. “You should know that, love.” He clapped, and the sconces in the walls lit dimly, but enough for her to clearly make him out, not just shadows and flashes of familiar Robin. She reached over to brush her hand against his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of end-of day stubble. “I love you, Harriet. I’m so sorry for hurting you.” Looking at her closely, he frowned. “Please, don’t cry. I don’t want you to cry…  I feel awful, really I do…”

She let out a little giggle, reaching up to rub at her bright eyes. “It’s… it’s not that. Well, not really.”

“What, love?”

She sighed. “It’s just that, well, I used to love it when you did that, before.”

“Did what?”

“Held me down,” she explained. “It made me feel… small, I suppose, but in a good way. Not like a weak way, but in a delicate, loved kind of way.”

“You are delicate,” he said with a smile, tracing her collarbone. “But you’re strong too. You’re perfect. And you are very, very loved.”

“I know,” she said with a grin, happy that she could finally say that. Her, Harriet Potter, inhabitant of the cupboard under the stairs, by turns wonder child and deranged lunatic of the wizarding world- she, she was loved!

He grinned back. “I have an idea, a game, if you like” he said. “I hope, maybe, that it’ll be better.” Carefully, he took one of her wrists in his hand, keeping his grip loose. He eased it up above her head until her fingers brushed the headboard. Instinctively, she grasped for a handhold in the carvings. He let go, and repeated it with the other wrist. “I want you to keep your hands there, okay?” he asked. “I’m not going to hold you or tie you. It’s up to you.” 

His eyes bored into hers, looking for something… fear, agreement, something. A single finger traced circles around one of her nipples, and it rose to the attention. Harriet took a shuddering breath, the embers of the fire in her pelvis igniting again. “Okay,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“That’s my girl. My own, perfect Harriet,” he murmured, then, dipped his head, his hair swishing against her breast. His tongue came out to trace the path his fingers had taken before, licking teasingly against the pebbled duskiness of her areola. Harriet whined low in her throat, her fingers gripping tightly to the headboard to resist moving her hands. Robin’s head came up, the lamplight reflected in his eyes as he searched her face. 

“I’m okay,” she whimpered. “I’m not frightened, it just… please, Robin… please?”

He grinned, levering himself up to run his hands down her trembling flanks, trembling with the effort to hold back, trembling with desire. She tracked him with half-lidded eyes, arching her hips up as he ran careful fingers over them again. 

He was gentle as he pulled her pyjama bottoms down her legs, divesting them of the last piece of clothing between them. He didn’t need any force at all to spread her legs: a brush of his thumbs at the juncture of thigh and pubis had her parting her legs, pushing up into his touch, begging. “Patience, kitten,” he scolded gently, raking his eyes down her body, over the soft mounds of her breasts, into the shallow hollow of her stomach. Finally, his dark gaze came to rest in the shadowed valley of her legs. Softly, a thumb on each side if her nether lips, he spread her open. She glistened in the low light; a dip of his finger towards her centre revealed a pool of clinging wet heat. “You’re sodden, eager little kitten,” he informed her in a whisper, his voice suddenly hoarse. All the times over the last weeks that he'd fantasised about this moment, being so close to Harriet again… he could barely hold himself back from covering her like a beast in rut. A single finger inside her confirmed her desire- her walls clung to him, drawing him deeper. He wasn’t going to draw this out any more, he couldn’t stand it. His cock was almost painfully engorged, the tip flared and red and shining. He was probably going to have to hold back as hard he could to last more than a few strokes in any case- he’d never yet had to resort to conjugating Latin verbs mid-sex, but this might be the time he would. Something about having her spread open beneath him, held there by the force of her own will and his demand… it lit an inferno of desire in him. “Ready?” he asked breathily. 

“Please,” she whimpered. He braced himself over her, her knees bending up instinctively, and one of her small hands came down, making to grasp his shaft, draw him into her. “Hands, Harriet,” he reminded her in mock sternness, not wanting to be too serious in case he frightened her.

She squeaked and returned her hand, though she was still pressing up, trying to get the right angle. He guided himself in instead, and they let out matched breaths of pleasure and relief as he slipped home. She tensed around him, and his fisted his hands in the pillow to distract him, quell the crashing need to pound into her. He was still afraid of hurting her. She felt almost virgin-tight again with the long weeks since he’d last been inside her, and he groaned low. Fingers wrapped into his hair. “Hands,” he said, taking great care to modulate his voice, not show his utter desperation. “Do I have to tie them for you?”

He felt the little shiver go through her as she returned her hands to the headboard. “You can let go if you really want,” he reminded her.

She shook her head stubbornly. “I like it,” she said. “I just forget. Please, Robin…”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” she whispered. He grinned at her bald, bold request, but gladly acquiesced. He was careful to keep his hands braced on the bed, and not to put too much weight on her, not wanting the rougher lovemaking to scare her, but he snapped his hips back and thrust deeply into her again. She mewled out her pleasure with this, grinding her hips up to meet him.

A few thrusts in, he suddenly stilled, something occurring to him. “Have you taken your potion?” he asked.

“I never stopped,” she assured him.She hadn’t wanted to admit to herself that she wouldn’t be seeing him soon, and even so, she’d learnt the painful lesson that just because she wasn’t expecting sex didn’t mean she wouldn’t get it. She got her potions personally form Severus now. “Robin…” she begged.

He lowered his face to kiss her, then, bracing on his knees, he gripped her hips tightly to thrust hard into her. His balance wasn’t good, but it hardly mattered. He’d have driven her head into the headboard is she hadn’t been pushing back against him with the leverage the same headboard offered, and it took only a few strokes before he lost his few shreds of control with a groan, emptying himself into her.

She moaned in protest as he withdrew, flopping to the side. “Give me a moment, kitten,” he said, slightly short on breath. “I’ll look after you in a minute. You can move your hands if you’d like.”

Stubbornly, she kept her grip on the headboard, tracking him with her big green eyes. He smiled indulgently, his own boneless weariness not seeming so important anymore. He propped his head up on his arm, then reached over with the other, pressing her nipples between her fingers, watching as they hardened even further. He gripped harder, hard enough to cause a little spark of pain, but she just pushed up into his hand. “You like that, don’t you?” he murmured.

She made a squeak of acquiescence. He leaned forward to capture the tormented bud in his mouth, running his hand down over her belly and tangling his fingers in the curls guarding her sex. Suckling at her, he bracketed her swollen clit with his fingers. He wasn’t the only one who’d been desperate and close to losing control: it took her very little time before she’d completely forgotten about keeping her hands in place and she was panting as she held him by his hair and moaned as he pushed her over the edge. 

He pulled a blanket back over them as she tucked her head against his shoulder, rolling to her side to throw her arm over him. “I missed you,” she said softly as he used the arm not tucked around her shoulders to snuggle the blanket up around her.

“I missed you too,” he replied, enjoying her petting his hair again. “It’s hard to concentrate on anything else, wondering how you are, wondering when I’ll next get to see you, and not knowing.” He kissed her forehead tenderly, and she sighed in contentment.

They fell into comfortable silence, their tension and fears released through the intimacy of sex, of just being close to each other. “When will we get married?” Harriet asked sleepily.

“That’s up to you as much as to me,” Robin said. “When would you like to get married?”  
“Soon,” Harriet said with a yawn. “It doesn’t take long to plan, does it? Ron and Imogen got married really quickly…”

He twirled a piece of her flyaway hair around his finger, moulding it into a curl. “I sort of promised Dad that we wouldn’t get married before your birthday,” he admitted.

“How about the first of August then?”

He snorted. “That’s just cheeky.” He fell silent for a moment. “I’d like to get married before I graduate, though. That’s next July.”

“Why?” she asked, looking up at him curiously.

“Well,” he said, a little bit nervous about broaching the topic, “I’d like my degree to be in the name I plan to have for the rest of my life. It might save confusion.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand. Why would your name change?”

He licked his dry lips. “I was thinking… I was wondering… if perhaps I could take your last name instead of you taking mine. I know it’s not traditional, but…” He lapsed away, not sure what her reaction was.

“But?” she prompted, utterly confused, but not unhappy.

He took a deep, readying breath. “My last name doesn’t mean that much to me, and it means nothing in the wizarding world,” he began. “Names and lineage mean a lot to wizards. It would be a shame for you to be… well, without obvious roots, I suppose. Potter… everyone knows that name, and it would be such a shame for it to die out… such a shame for you to lose it, when it’s the connection to who you were, boy-who-lived and all that. Would you mind? I mean, it’s your choice too…”

“I think I’d like that,” Harriet said after a moment of thought. “I sort of still think of you as Robin Snape, not Brandon. And as nice as your Dad actually is, the idea of being ‘Harriet Snape’ is pretty weird, and it was bad enough getting used to being ‘Harriet’ instead of ‘Harry’. It would be nice to not have to change my name. Are you sure you won’t mind? People will find it odd…”

“People will think I’m doing it for the power,” Robin said. “The political clout of being a Potter… but let them think what they want. I’m yours, Harriet.”

“But I’m yours,” she replied playfully.

He kissed her. “We’ll just have to share each other,” he told her. “How do you feel about the winter Solstice?”

“Huh?” she asked.

“To get married. The winter Solstice. It’s a pretty major event in the old ways, symbolises new beginnings, and it’s only a few days before Christmas, so we’ll both be on holiday.”

“Not August?” she asked.

“Not August,” he said. “There’s no need for that much of a rush, love. We have all our lives ahead of us. Give us some time to decide what we’d like, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed, only a bit disappointed. Under a year wasn’t too bad. She snuggled herself back against him. “I love you, Robin.”

“I love you too, Harriet.”


	94. In the end

In August:

 

Harriet found Ron sitting in the hallway opposite the door to his bedroom, his knees drawn up to his chest and his long arms wrapped around them. His head was back against the wall, his eyes closed. 

“Hey,” Harriet said, folding herself to the floor beside him. “Here.” She handed him the rolled parchment she’d brought up.

“What’s this?” Ron asked, sounding tired. 

“NEWT results,” Harriet said. 

“Oh. You had yours?”

“Yeah,” she said. “O in Defence and Charms, E in Potions, A in Transfiguration and Herbology. I’ll get Runes later- I take the exam on Monday.”

“Oh. Well done,” Ron said flatly, not making any move to open his own results. He held them loosely in one hand, his gaze not shifting from his bedroom door.

“You going to open them?”

“I’ll wait for Im,” he replied. “I don’t want to find out before she does, y’know?”

Harriet cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I can go,” she suggested. “I just came to see what your results were, I didn’t realise about Imogen…”

“Nah,” Ron replied. “Stay. I could probably do with the company.” He tapped his scroll idly against his leg. “You know,” he said after a few moments of silence, “this doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I know Hermione would be hitting me over the head with them for saying that I don’t care what my results are, but… Imogen’s in there, having my babies. Who cares what happens, as long as they’re all okay?”

“You’re still going to be an auror, aren’t you?” Harriet asked.

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, if I get the results, I suppose. If I didn’t… well. Guess I’ll just do whatever to make some money. Fred and George need help in the shop, ‘specially since Fred can’t do much any more. I just want to make enough to make a life for us, y’know?  Living here, with Mum… it’s a bit overbearing, really. I want us to have our own place, but that might take a while.” He sighed, wanting to direct the talk away from him. “What about you?” he asked. “How’s the house hunting going?”

Harriet winced. It was a touchy subject. “Not great,” she admitted. “We can’t seem to agree- there’s no way two of us can live in Robin’s place- he doesn’t have room for his own stuff, let alone more from me. Not that I have that much, but…”

Ron fiddled with his jumper. “What about Grimmauld Place? Or that house you have in Edinburgh?”

“I don’t think I could really bear to live in Grimmauld Place,” Harriet admitted. “It’s… too Sirius, I suppose? Not to mention filthy, and can you imagine what old Mrs. Black would have to say about a half-blooded squib?” She snickered, and Ron even barked out a quick chuckle of laughter. “I was kind of thinking of giving it away, actually… It’s a Black house, and Draco’s mother was a Black, so I thought he might like it… and Kreacher would probably love him.”

Ron stared at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “You want to just  _ give _ someone a house? Just give  _ Malfoy _ a house?”

“He’s not a Malfoy any more,” Harriet reiterated with a sigh. “And he has nothing, he’ll be living on a training stipend. He’s been living with Severus, because he’s got nowhere else to go. I don’t want the house.”

Ron shook his head slowly, still looking astounded. “I dunno, mate, that’s a pretty big present to someone as shitty as the ferret.”

Harriet had changed so much since the feuds she and Draco had engaged in over the years. Draco had changed too. He was still high-handed in his manner, with an arrogance that rubbed most the wrong way, but Harriet knew it for what it was now: simply a defence. Because she’d found Draco staring moodily into space, she’d heard the shouts of frustration and the sobs from his room when he’d neglected a silencing sphere, and she’d seen Severus slipping in. She knew that Draco was damaged by his childhood just as she was. Yes, he’d grown up in a grand house, with every material possession he could want for, but who, after all, would want Lucius Malfoy for a father? He’d disowned his only son without a second thought, and already, the newlywed Pansy Malfoy had appeared in public in tight-fitting robes, a hand supporting a very small bump. There had been no official announcement of pregnancy, but that didn’t stop the Prophet printing the photo and running endless speculations. Draco had every right to be a bit prickly, she’d decided. “Well, just because he was awful in the past doesn’t mean he will be in the future,” she said. “Technically, he’s going to be my brother-in-law soon… well, by adoption, or something?”

Ron shook his head. “Eugh, that’s just too weird, you being related to the ferret… you being related to Snape!”

A smile quirked at the corners of Harriet’s mouth. Ron found it weird, but she was used to it now… she welcomed it. Severus had done so much for her over the last year, and now she could see how he’d protected her from a distance all of her Hogwarts career. And for all that she and Robin couldn’t seem to decide on a place to live, she was impatient to marry him. “I suppose,” Ron mused, “at least you won’t change your name. Imagine, you could have been Harriet Snape!”

“Harriet Brandon,” she said distractedly, still thinking of finally being one half of a Robin-and-Harriet unit, legally.

“Yeah, well, come December, you’ll be Snape’s daughter-in-law,” Ron said with a wince. “Married woman, and all that.”

“But we need to find a house first,” Harriet sighed.

“The Edinburgh house?” Ron suggested again. “That place was nice.”

“Too big, too grand,” Harriet said with a long-suffering sigh. She didn’t feel comfortable there either. “Besides, Robin can’t really explain that he’s travelling by floo to all his muggle friends. It would be better to live somewhere near Manchester. We’ll have to find something soon- Hogwarts is looking pretty good right now. There’s only a few bits left to go, and after we finish, there’s no reason for me to stay there any longer. I need somewhere to live.” She let her head fall back against the wall, a mirror of Ron. “Being grown up is hard,” she sighed. “I thought that once the war was over, everything would be easy, like nothing could ever be hard after Voldemort. But it’s just a different kind of hard, you know? Not so much running for your life, but still a bit… difficult.”

That much couldn’t be denied. For a month after the battle, it had seemed that they’d done nothing but attend endless funerals. Mr. Weasley and Charlie had been the hardest, but that didn’t make Lavender Brown or Justin Finch-Fletchy or Padma Patil any easier. And Moody… Moody’s funeral had been very hard. There had been trials, as well- Death Eaters and suspected Death Eaters, and Harriet, along with others present at the battle, had been called to give evidence. There was at least some happier news- Harriet and Robin weren’t the only ones to announce an engagement: Lupin and Tonks had finally decided to ‘make it official’ and would wed next summer. Neville and Luna, too, were officially betrothed. 

It hadn’t all been dramatic events: the fifth and seventh years had returned to a Hogwarts that was rather more crumbly than before the battle to finish their lessons and do their exams. Hermione had been ecstatically grateful that the library had somehow escaped largely unscathed- there was a small cave-in by the door that necessitated a magical scaffold to allow for safety, but the books were safe. Hermione and her books…The same couldn’t be said for the Hufflepuff common room and dormitories, though, which were little more than a dusty mountain of rubble, tenuously supporting the floors above it. Harriet sighed… that was the next part of the castle to be repaired, and she was fed up of her punishment duties by now, carrying and sweeping and cleaning along with the house elves for the most part.

“I know,” Ron replied, breaking Harriet’s train of thought. “Before, it was just us, right? But now… now I’m going to be a dad, and that’s so scary.”

The door to the bedroom opened and Ron shot straight up. A groan emanated from the depths of the room. Severus shut it quickly behind him. “Is it… are they…?” Ron asked breathlessly. 

“The babies have not yet arrived,” Severus said. He handed a large jug to Ron. “Please fetch another jug of iced water, please. In addition, I need you to contact St. Mungo’s, please- floo to the midwifery department and ask for Edith Belmarsh to attend.”

Ron’s eyes widened in panic. “What? Why? What’s wrong?”

Severus sighed and glared down his nose at Ron. “Nothing is wrong. We discussed this, Weasley. She is simply going to oversee. I am still in training, after all, and a triplet birth is unusual.”

“Oh,” Ron replied. “Oh, yes. I remember.” He looked down at his feet for a moment. “Can… can I see her?”

Severus looked down at him with his hard Severus stare. “That would not be appropriate,” he said. “Please make yourself useful.”

Ron was getting better at standing up to Severus, particularly where Imogen was concerned. After all, he figured that he should be able to defend her. “How is she?”

Severus sighed. “She is doing well enough,” he replied. “A little tired, but that is to be expected.” He glared at Ron until he finally turned tail and ran. 

Severus glanced down at Harriet. “Why are you here, Harriet?”

“Erm, NEWT results?” she said, holding up her scroll.

“Hmm. What are your results?”

“E in potions,” she said with a grin. “Two O’s, the E and two A’s.”

“Well done,” Severus said shortly. “I must return to Mistress Weasley now. Do not make a nuisance of yourself.” He was gone before she could even roll her eyes- she wasn’t a child, she’d turned eighteen almost a week ago! She was hardly going to run riot and annoy everyone! She slowly climbed to her feet. She should probably go, leave Ron and Imogen. They’d floo her when the babies were born anyway: that much had been agreed. She was going to be Godmother to one of them, along with Hermione and Faye. 

Before she could get more than a few slow steps, Ron was hurrying back up the stairs, a jug of iced water sloshing dangerously in his hands. He looked at the closed door helplessly, then turned to Harriet. “I don’t think I’m allowed in,” he said, holding his burden out to Harriet. “Can you?”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “Me?” she asked. “But… she’s your wife!”

Ron flushed. “Well, yeah, but Snape says I can’t go in… he says it’s not right for a husband to see…”

He looked so much like a kicked puppy that Harriet took pity on him. She took the full jug. “Oh!” he cried. “Tell him the midwife will be here in about twenty minutes.”

She nodded, and grimly knocked on the door. “I’ve got the water,” she called through the door.

“Come in, Harriet,” Severus voice came faintly, then something indistinct as his voice faded out. Cautiously, Harriet turned the door handle.

She didn’t really know what she’d expected. Darkness, perhaps, with the curtains pulled tight against the world, a close, sweaty, primal space. But it wasn’t. It was just Ron’s bedroom, where she’d spent so much time. It was changed, certainly- the walls were freshly painted and no longer plastered with Chudley Cannons posters, though two remained in a corner. The bed too, was different, no longer two singles under the eaves, but a double bed beneath the window, which was open, letting in a slight breeze, though there was the slight shimmer of a silencing charm over it. A large crib stood against one wall.

She’d also imagined some kind of medieval scene with Imogen in some kind of torture device, restrained, helpless. She’d seen the birthing stool that Severus used, but, as yet, it lay abandoned in a corner. Instead, nightie-clad Imogen leaned over the side of the bed, one knee braced on the edge, one on the floor and arms locked out before her. She panted shallowly, completely ignoring Harriet. Severus glanced over. “Set it on the dressing table, please,” he said reproachfully, as if berating her for wide-eyed fascination. Imogen let out a long, low moan, Severus rubbing the small of her back. “That’s it. Not long now,” he reassured her. “Keep breathing.”

Harriet stood, shuffling her feet, not sure whether to interrupt. “What?” Severus snapped at her.

“The… the, erm, midwife says she’ll be about twenty minutes,” Harriet relayed hesitantly.

“Thank you,” Severus allowed. “Now, pour a little of that water, and bring it here.”

Harriet scurried to obey, half filling the wide glass tumbler on the dressing table. Carefully, she handed it to the waiting Severus. “That’s all, Harriet. Please send Healer Belmarsh in when she arrives.” He offered the glass to Imogen. “Just small sips,” he advised. “Just enough to wet your mouth.”

He looked up, holding the glass steady for Imogen. “That will be all, Harriet,” he said sternly.

“How long will it take?” Harriet asked, ignoring him.

Severus huffed out a frustrated breath. “Babies arrive in their own time. Now go.”

Imogen cried out again, and Severus grasped the glass firmly before she could drop it, her hands immediately pressing to her hugely swollen belly. “Harriet,” she panted out, her face grimaced and red, “Tell Ron… tell him I love him, but right now, I want to hex his bollocks off.” 

Harriet blanched. “Okay,” she agreed shakily, and finally fled. She shut the door firmly behind her, and leaning against it, blinked at Ron. “I am never having children,” she informed him vehemently. 

She made moves to leave a few times, but every time, Ron begged her to stay. They camped outside his room until lunchtime, their uneasy wait interrupted only by the arrival of Healer Belmarsh. She was a tall, dour woman- of the two, Harriet thought that Severus was quite possibly the warmer. Mrs. Weasley finally tempted them downstairs for lunch. “You’ll be no use when the babies come if you haven’t eaten,” she informed Ron kindly as he looked helplessly at his bedroom door, firmly shut against the world. “You need your strength, and first babies take a while.”

Fred and George were already at the table when the came down. They usually shut up shop for an hour at lunchtime and came home, Ron had explained- it wasn’t uncommon practice on Diagon Alley, where everything seemed to run on a different schedule. Apart from the crazed two weeks before Hogwarts started, when shopkeepers opened early and barely ate, but made an astounding profit, and the month before Christmas, Diagon Alley closed between half past twelve and half past one. 

Harriet watched from beneath her eyelashes as Molly delivered two plates of ham, egg and chips, one already cut into bite-sized chunks, egg yolk spreading across the speckled brown earthenware. George handed Fred a fork wordlessly as Molly delivered food for Harriet and Ron. “You eating, Mum?” George asked, his tone light, but something in his gaze as he watched his mother flit about the kitchen. 

“Oh, I’m not really very hungry, love,” she replied with a vague smile. 

“You need to eat something,” he said, setting his knife down and reaching over to steady a cup for Fred.

“He’s right, Mum,” Fred said, when he had gulped down a mouthful of water. His fork clattered noisily against the plate as he tried to stab a piece of ham. 

“Oh, Freddie,” Mrs. Weasley sighed as the ham went skittering onto the floor. 

“Sorry,” Fred muttered softly, head down. Harriet had never seen him so very… subdued. Laughing, joking Fred was gone, or hidden so deeply that she couldn’t find him. Beside her, Ron kept his attention firmly on his food.

“It’s fine, Mum,” George said firmly. “It’s not a problem, alright?” His chair scraped in the uncomfortable silence as he leaned over to retrieve the fleeing meat. He dropped it into the chicken scrap bucket.

Ron’s glance strayed to the clock once again. Harriet hadn’t thought to look at it, not in ages. She couldn’t bear to think of it without Arthur and Charlie’s hands. She squinted to see it properly now.

Her hand was still there, and she realised with an odd little skitter of her gut that it pointed, with the others, to ‘home’. Was that because Mrs. Weasley saw this as Harriet’s home? Did it still say ‘school’, she wondered, when she went back to Hogwarts, where she lived now, rather than studied? And what would it say when she was living in her own house, with Robin? Imogen’s hand, at least, also pointed to ‘home’, and not ‘mortal peril’, though Harriet could see why Ron was worried- her clock hand shook and trembled, as if not quite sure where to go.

Fred and George left, Fred’s plate not empty yet. Molly tutted over the leftovers. “Mum, you’ve got to leave them be,” Ron said, finally. “They’re managing.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said with a sigh. “You can’t understand the worry a mother feels for her children.”

“Hey!” Ron began. 

He didn’t get much further. “Mr Weasley?” Healer Belmarsh asked from the doorway. Molly visibly paled, bracing herself against the scrubbed countertop.

Ron had stood, his own freckles standing out against his pale face. “Is everything… okay?”

“You have three baby girls, Mr Weasley,” she informed him without a hint of a smile. “You may go up to see your wife now.”

Ron didn’t have to be asked twice. His chair rocked alarmingly as he left it at top speed. “Honestly,” Healer Belmarsh intoned. “Anyone would think that birth was not something that happened every day.”

It didn’t, for most people, Harriet thought. Not everyone, after all, was a midwife. For Ron and Imogen, this was a long-awaited, wonderful moment. She splayed her hand across her own flat belly, once again wondering what it would be like to have children. She still had no idea if it was something she wanted or not. Something else that she and Robin would have to figure out. Later though. “Are you alright?” she asked Molly.

She received a weak smile in return. “Yes, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. “It’s just a shock, that’s all. When I hear someone say ‘Mr. Weasley’, it just makes me think of my Arthur, that’s all.” She took a long,calming gulp of air, straightened, and hung the tea towel she’d clutched neatly over a cupboard door. “I should floo for the other godparents… no doubt they’ll want to get the babies named, and I want to meet my first granddaughters. Make yourself useful dear, and make a pot of tea. No doubt Imogen will need some.” She bustled off to the fireplace, and Harriet filled a kettle of water. 

She was pouring the boiling water into the pot when Hermione stepped through the floo. The last of the golden trio to arrive was practically humming with excitement as she bounded out of the way of the fire. “Have you seen them yet?” she asked Harriet. “What are their names?”

“I haven’t seem them, and they haven’t said what the names are yet,” Harriet told her.

“It’s odd how you can live in the wizarding world for years and not know the traditions, isn’t it?” Hermione gushed. “I mean, not telling anyone the names before they babies are born? It’s so different from the muggle world!”

“It’s so the child can’t be cursed in the womb,” Molly said. “Some say that if you share the child’s name with anyone but the other parent before birth, it will be born deformed, or a squib.”

Hermione giggled. “Such a quaint tradition,” she said.

“Well, say as you like, but I gave birth to seven healthy children, and never shared the names before they were born,” Molly sniffed. She turned back to the fire to floo for Faye, but the flames flared up again, and Robin stepped out.

“Hello, Molly,” he said with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind me coming… I was a bit worried about where Harriet was, so when you called Hermione...”

“Oh no, my dear boy, of course not,” Molly said with a wide smile. She’d adored Robin since he’d done the dishes for her. “Now, you just sit down over there, and we’ll get you a cup of tea!”

“There’s no need to put yourself out,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

She flapped her hands at him, a broad grin on her face. “Oh, get on with you,” she chided good-naturedly then stuck her head back into floo-green flames.

Robin laid his hands on Harriet’s shoulders. “All okay?” he asked.

“All okay,” she said with a smile, looking up over her shoulders at him. “Well, I think all okay… no one said it wasn’t.”

He smiled. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad.” He kissed the top of her head, then looked up towards the door. Harriet followed his gaze. 

Ron stood there, almost literally beaming from ear to ear. “There’s someone I’d like you all to meet,” he said, slightly breathless. “You’ll have to come upstairs if you’d like to meet her sisters- I was too scared to carry more than one at a time, and Imogen’s not ready to come down quite yet.”

Mrs. Weasley was there then, gently lifting a blanketed bundle from Ron’s careful, almost comically exaggerated hold. “Oh, the precious little mite!” she gushed. “Oh, look, she’s got a little bit of ginger hair already… oh, Ron, how beautiful she is!” she looked up, almost dewy eyed. “Oh, they’re all alright, then! All healthy, right numbers of fingers and toes?”

Ron nodded, after a moment of hesitation. “One of them is really tiny,” he said. “She’s upstairs, and they said she’s not breathing very well yet, but it’s because she’s so little, and Snape’s given her some potion to help her lungs.” Curiously, Harriet crept forward. She’d never seen a really tiny baby before.

Not much of the little girl was visible: a tiny, squished face, a wisp of reddish hair. A little hand curled out of the blanket level with her head. It was the fingernails that Harriet noticed- minute little fingernails, so impossibly tiny, and yet so very perfectly formed. She could hardly fathom anything as tiny as that baby’s fingernails actually existing. And if there was a triplet even smaller… “Are they always so small?” she asked. The baby opened her eyes, and they seemed the biggest thing about her.

“She’s seven weeks premature,” Molly explained. “And she had to share space with two other little babies.”

“But Imogen was  _ huge _ !” Harriet protested. “I kept thinking she’d never be able to stand up again every time she sat down!”

Mrs. Weasley chuckled. “That’s what being pregnant is like, dear. One day, God willing, you’ll know.” The floo flared green, and Faye flopped through, a stack of carefully wrapped packages in her hands. “That’s everyone, then,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Shall we go up?”

Robin tried to hang back in the kitchen, but Molly ushered him along. Namings, she said, were a family affair, and he was family now. Even Ron, who normally found himself quite tongue-tied near Robin (He couldn’t understand how anyone could speak three languages, and two of them dead, especially without magical help) urged him to come. Ron would have urged anyone he could find to come and admire his brand-new daughters. 

Imogen was propped on a pile of pillows in the bed, dressed in a clean white nightdress, and even the bedsheets looked freshly changed. She was pale, purple shadows beneath her eyes, but she still smiled wanly at the little parade of people squashed into the room. She had another bundle lying loosely in her arms, and Severus had a third. Each baby was swaddled in a different colour, Harriet realised- Mrs Weasley carried the purple one, Imogen had one in a peachy pink, and Severus, in the corner, held an ivory-clad baby. 

Imogen beckoned Faye forwards. Her voice was a little raspy. “Faye, meet your goddaughter. This is Alexandria Virginia Weasley.” 

Faye perched at the edge of the bed before taking the bundle. “I’m scared I’ll get the words wrong,” she whispered, one fingertip feathering across the baby’s tiny cheek.

“It’s the intent that matters,” Severus said, his voice calm and deep amongst the nervousness around them.

Faye smiled down at the baby. “I...I recognise this child, and give her up to the powers of the world. Alexandria Virginia, may your path be joyous and your troubles few.” Everyone watched with bated breath as a glitter before her grew into a shimmer and a piece of parchment dropped down onto her knee. Severus, a baby cradled carefully in the crook of one arm, reached out for it, setting it carefully on the chest of drawers.

“Who is next?” he asked. 

“Mum, will you give Elizabeth to Hermione?” Ron said. 

Mrs. Weasley carefully handed the baby into Hermione’s unsure grip. “Just Elizabeth?” Hermione asked. 

“Elizabeth Susan,” Imogen supplied. 

Speaking clearly, Hermione repeated the words to the naming spell. That birth certificate, too, was carefully added to the other. Harriet looked at Severus’ tiny burden. “Be careful,” he said as he laid her in Harriet’s arms, correcting her position to adequately support the sleeping baby’s head. “This little girl isn’t quite as strong as the others.”

She was even tinier than little Alexandria, but somehow slightly less squashed, a little less froggy. She had more hair too. Harriet was surprised to find her heart beating quickly. “What’s her name?” she whispered, not wanting to wake the baby. “Charlotte Molly,” Imogen said softly. Mrs. Weasley squeaked in pleasure at being honoured. 

She’d practiced the words, and she’d listened to Faye and Hermione already. She tried not to sound too scared, too hesitant. “I recognise this child, and give her up to the powers of the world. Charlotte Molly, may your path be joyous and your troubles few.” She looked up, and met Robin’s eyes. He lingered in the doorway. He smiled at her, inclining his head in such a way as to say that he knew what she was thinking: that this could be their future, with babies of their own. Not now, though. Maybe in a few years.

“Big names for little babies,” Faye said softly.

“Lexie, Lizzie and Lottie,” Ron supplied. 

“Nice names for little girls, and big, official names for when they get older,” Imogen explained. “And grandmothers Molly and Susan and aunt Ginny for middle names.” 

Molly surreptitiously brushed away a tear. “I wish Arthur had been able to see this,” she whispered, not trusting her voice any further. “He was so excited about his grandchildren…”

No one really knew what to say to that. In an idea world, Arthur would have been here to hold his granddaughters, but it was far from an ideal world. Perhaps, though, it was a world better than it had been. There was no more Voldemort. Harriet looked down at the baby in her arms. It had to be a better world for little Lottie. This, this was what she’d fought for, this was what Arthur and Charlie and Moody and so many others had died for. 

A better world for all of them.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks! :) Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far, and especially all those who have reviewed and encouraged me!  
> Almost a full year of writing this... I started it when I read the beginning of a femharry fic, thought it was terrible and I could do better. Then I thought it would be fun to write some smut, and then a wild plot appeared! There are definitely things I'd have done differently in hindsight, but that's what experience is for.  
> I do have ideas for a sequel, and even a few bits written, but as yet, it lacks any cohesive plot, or even an antagonist. I do hope it will appear one day, though. In the meantime, I'd like to do some work on my original fiction- all the lovely comments I've had have given me the confidence to think that maybe I could get something published if I could just get it written! I'm brilliant at starting things, and terrible at finishing them. I'm also working on an honest-to-goodness Drarry, so we'll see where that goes :)


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